We Are Legend
by ElocinMuse
Summary: We are immune. We are the last humans. She is the final hope. I am her guardian. REPOST. BB eventually. Crossover, but not really.
1. The Duty Which Breaks Us

**Author's Note: Kay, so this here is a bigger and better repost of my old baby. Updates should come a week apart or sooner. If it's later than that, I'll say beforehand. This puppy is almost finished, so that should help speed things along, too. **

**Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive critcism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**(For pictures, trailers, etc to this beast of a fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile. You may have to friend me, but if you do, I never turn anyone down. You'll be friended back.)**

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* * *

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**PROLOGUE**  
THE DUTY WHICH BREAKS US

*

_I still remember the world from the eyes of a child  
Slowly those feelings were clouded by what I know now  
I want to go back to believing in everything  
And knowing nothing at all_

_I still remember the sun always warm on my back  
Somehow it seems colder now_

-Field of Innocence-

* * *

_**Washington DC  
September 31st, 2009  
6:42 pm**_

Dark and drawn are the shadows on his face, profile sharply chiseled. His eyes, once liquid brown and full of life, are lost to vacant black. They no longer shine, and there is no warmth within. Though his outer shell reflects quite the opposite. He feels ill, and his flesh is flush with fever. It has everything to do with the traumatic events just previously endured, and nothing to do with the same malady being suffered beyond this building's walls. But he is hollow, all the same.

If only his fleeting daydreams were truth–he would gladly endure the sickness alone if it meant the world saved and the thing in his grasp denied from existence.

He stares out into the world below, face full of unspoken pain, standing at the window of his office and feeling the solitude like a crushing fog. The muted light streaming through the blinds cast shadows across his face almost like bars.

The skies are gray and the sun is gone. A raindrop would vanish before it could even fall, yet the streets are damp and restless. Those desperate enough to venture out of their homes conduct themselves with hurried gaits, their coats pulled tightly across their chests. Some wear the breathing masks. It's almost like a doomsday feature bent on entertaining the masses, not the harsh cut of reality.

Even though the nation is suffering, he is certain the everyday passersby know nothing of the despair that wreaks grief and agony on those around them. He doubts they can even fathom the fierce sorrow and naked dread that plagues him now. His suit-jacket and tie long since discarded, he turns his eyes down on the crumpled paper that hides in his white-knuckled grasp.

No.

They have no idea the pain this outbreak has caused.

The numbness at last reaches his fingers, and they slacken in response. The paper flutters to the floor, a whisper in the silence.

_I am no prophet of doom._

* * *

_**3:15 pm**_

_He stares in horrified fascination, he cannot look away. Determined, as if he can will the black-inked letters to rewrite themselves less gruesome. A lump forms in his throat and a deep weight sinks in his middle. He reads the formal order again and again until his distorted vision finally disallows him to go any further._

_Ice on his spine, rivers in his eyes._

_Words stand out, harsh in contrast–like blood in water. _

"…_quarantine… target… threat… Temperance Brennan… eliminate…"_

_And he is in pain. Physical pain. He's not even forty and he's having a heart attack. If only that were the case._

_He releases the document as if burned, and it floats to his desk with a harmless flap. Rising, he backs away–as far from the offending slip of paper as he can physically manage. His breathing, which is becoming harder and harder to maintain, is sharp and thin. _

_Short, and terrifyingly to the point._

"…_eliminate…"_

_The room is spinning. His balance wavers._

_This can't be happening._

_Bile in his throat. This is a nightmare, a dream of torment–it isn't rational, reality isn't so ruthless. Nothing in the last few months has been reality. Wake up, he tells himself. _

_Desperation. _

_Relief never comes._

_Through the moist fog that has gathered in his vision, he clutches the paper again–praying the words have changed, or that his morbid mind has only played a cruel trick on his heart. The same words burn into the back of his eyes, branded there into his memory._

"…_eliminate…"_

_The floor feels suddenly groundless under his feet and, for a fleeting moment, he wonders if it will open up beneath him. Instead, his back meets with the wall. Picture frames rattle, glass hums. There is a rushing in his ears, and the silence that follows deafens him. His heart pounds in his chest, which heaves and cries out for air that has abandoned him. Lungs constrict as if his entire body is frozen in denial._

_This is what despair truly feels like._

"_Please," he whisper–to anyone who will listen._

_He sinks slowly to the floor, fingers curling around the parchment tightly as he screws his eyes shut and weeps openly._

"…_kill…" _

_The orders that mock him from the formal document ring ceaselessly in his ears, haunting and unrelenting. _

"…_upon termination, the deceased: Temperance Brennan, shall be taken into government custody, and placed into quarantine immediately…"_

* * *

_I fear I am broken and won't mend, I know  
__I lay here not sleeping; now the long night has begun  
__Oh angels in heaven, don't you care for me at all?_

-Kate Rusby-


	2. My Loyalty is My Downfall

**Author's Note: Aaaand here's an update for you.**

**Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive critcism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**(For pictures, trailers, etc to this beast of a fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile. You may have to friend me, but if you do, I never turn anyone down. You'll be friended back.)**

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE  
**MY LOYALTY IS MY DOWNFALL

*

_The child without a name grew up to be the hand  
To watch you, to shield you, or kill on demand  
The choice he'd made he could not comprehend  
His blood a grim secret they had to commend_

_He's torn between his honor and the true love of his life  
He prayed for both but was denied_

-Hand of Sorrow-

* * *

_**6:45 pm**_

He allows his gaze to fall, an emptiness settling over him. Fragments of memory, although vivid, flicker across his vision. He still faces the world through droplet-studded window, but sees nothing of the outer life. Presses his hand against the glass, if only to feel something. The damp cold radiates from the surface to his skin, reminding him he's not asleep.

He fists the acquired liquor bottle at his side, bringing it to his lips and swallowing several gulps without emotion. Naturally strong and confident posture is now slack and defeated, and he has failed to muster an expression to decorate his face.

His own voice, foreign to his racing thoughts, fills his ears as if from a great distance.

_"I swear to God, Sam, I'll see this building in ruin. I'll burn it to the ground myself if I have to." His tone is hoarse. His jaw is rough with neglect, as if reflective of his internal state._

Thunder rumbles from outside.

"_Christ, Booth–who else? Who else has to die before you wake up?" Samuel Cullen recesses only to draw a breath before delivering the killing blow. "Parker? Is that whose death would open your eyes? To see him suffering, surrounded by plastic sheets in a sealed box? Being jabbed with needles all day and night by men in Hazmat suits?" _

Images shift. He takes another pull from the bottle, suppliant that his consciousness be seized and put to rest. Damaged as he is, inner torment wins the battle. But what of the war?

In the reflective surface of the glass, he sees his own distorted image. He doesn't recognize the face looking back at him.

"_It's not her fault," is his soft insistence, breaking the pregnant silence, if barely. _

_Cullen's hard countenance lessens significantly. "The worst decisions are always made with the best intentions. You think I encouraged this course of action? Maybe we didn't get along much, but that woman was one of the most damn decent persons I've ever met."_

_He bows his head, staring at his feet but never actually seeing the shining luster or stitching. All his eyes see, all his head is filled with, are glimpses of the future. And what it will bring. What it asks of him. Nightmares dance and shadows taunt._

"_But_ s_he started this mess," Cullen eventually continues, "and she pressed forward with these trials from day one. We've tried bringing her in. She's evaded us for months, now. She's destroyed entire labs, put multiple men of ours in the hospital." The Deputy Director hesitates in pressing on, but knows his best agent has to hear the inevitable. "How many lives is she endangering by simply existing? She's patient zero. These infected citizens: men, women, children… she's responsible. Some have developed an immunity, yes. But not everyone is so fortunate as you, Booth. How many others have only the luxury of becoming a corpse?" _

_His jaw trembles. Outrage blossoms in his chest. He blinks once, realizing that he is seeing through a red veil. Turning a sickened glare on his present company, his restraint finally cracks and his temper splits wide open. _

_"You can justify this? After what they've done? Asking me to carry out a formal hit on my own partner?" Voice rising considerably, he barely registers that he's seriously deliberating coming to blows with the man before him–who is not only a superior, but a friend. He's too enraged, too afraid, to care. Righteous anger laces his every word. "She's not some genocidal threat to mankind, she's a goddamn human being!" _

_With an understanding expression, the elder man offers no challenge to this. He sighs unhappily in agreement. As if reading his mind, Cullen speaks. "Fear makes people do stupid things, Seeley." _

_The remark hits home. It's too close._

"_To them, she's a sacrifice that must be made. In order to save a greater people. You know she would agree."_

"_She can fix this," he weakly defends, unwilling to accept her already sealed fate. He looks up at his superior with pleading eyes that shine with emotion, anger falling away to desperation. "If she only had more time…"_

"_We're out of time," Cullen's tone is regretful, sympathetic, but firm. "She refuses to come in. She's a danger to everyone around her. We've been trying to track her down for weeks now. And it doesn't help matters when you lie to me and say you haven't seen her. Everyone knows it's you she'd run to. Now, we're out of options. The shit hit the fan with this airborne spread, and DOD finally snapped. They're out for blood." _

_He looks away, burying his face in his hands and collapsing into the nearest chair. Too many emotions assault him at once, and it's overwhelming. He's always in control, always has a plan. _

_He hates being helpless. _

_Rationally, as she would say, he knew that one day the numbers would catch up to him. He's protected her too many times, saved her once more than acceptable. Worse, it appears his past sins have finally caught up to him. And she is the one to pay._

_Cullen tries to rein in his own compassion, forcing down the boulder in his throat that has formed without warning. "I can't force you to do this. Lord knows they'd want me to try. I'm disgusted to ask it of you. But you have to understand… I only forwarded this to you because…" he trails off uncertainly, staring at some point unknown on the floor._

_The dead silence in the room only allows Cullen's words to sink deeper into his being, making his chest constrict painfully. _

"_They're bringing a team in from Langley," the Deputy Director says finally, and out of his peripheral, he sees the younger man look up. "A few agents, I think." He looks uncomfortable. "It took me awhile, but I convinced the Director of OOS of your particular skill in this area. They know you're the best." _

_They know he can track her–like no one else could. And they know by his seamless record… that he can get the job done._

_The look he gives the other man is utterly murderous. Clouds darken his already bottomless eyes. His entire demeanor is so dark and predatory that Cullen finds himself rightfully intimidated. Sometimes, he forgets just how dangerous this man is. _

_"The best at what? Killing?"_

"_Booth–"_

"_So you just _volunteer_ me to take out Bones?" To actually say it aloud is enough to finally break him, and the reality of it all sets in. His voice fractures and his eyes glitter in the low light._

_Shrapnel in his heart. Knife in his back._

"_Booth," Cullen says firmly. He must be allowed to continue. "I thought you might…" He lets out a breath, sinking into his own chair. "Jesus, I didn't want it to be one of those cowboys from Intelligence. I didn't want it to be a job–just another name to erase. I thought you'd want…" Finally meeting the agent's eyes in earnest, a moment hangs between them. _

_An unspoken truth. A silent battle. _

"_She deserves to matter." _

_He feels himself choked with emotion, and a crack appears in the floodgates. His gaze is set rigidly against the unremarkable sheetrock that lines the room._

"_It should be someone who knew her. Who doesn't see her as a threat, or just another mark." Hesitation. The weathered man's own eyes are shining now. "I thought it should be you."_

_The warrior strength the FBI Special Agent has previously carried, without end, finally crumbles. If he attempts to speak, he knows he will only fail. Throat closed, cheeks moist, he can only be still. He stares into nothing, a picture of remorse. The pain is unbearable, the grief too suffocating. He can't fathom the way it will only intensify. _

_If he were to do the unthinkable. _

_He can hear Cullen speaking again, and it sounds far away. But it reaches him, nonetheless. It's too important. Too pivotal._

"_When you killed that father in front of his son… wiped out an entire village… racked up those perfect shots… you did what was necessary. For the greater good. For the betterment of mankind." _

_Sometimes, he knew, you had to give up the things you want the most. Had to be steady, and defend a greater cause. Defend the faith. _

_Paladin. _

_Defender of the people. _

_Another tear falls. And another. _

_Not defender of one._

"_That's a formal order from our District of Defense, Agent Booth," Cullen's voice rings in his ears with an agonizing finality. "I believe you recall what to do with them."_

_Do what must be done. A cause greater than one life. _

"_If it had to be anyone… I think that's what she'd want." _

_It's then that he knows. He's really going to do it. Because he won't allow it to anyone else. _

_Defender to the bitter end._

* * *

_**October 2nd, 2009**_

It doesn't take him long to find her.

The benefit of truly knowing someone, being close to them–he can feel her. He doesn't need to spend weeks shadowing her from under the cover of sundown and harsh elements, thickets and burs assaulting his face as he stalks. Hunts. The smell of mud and sweat and blood filling every one of his senses.

Only her does he see and perceive.

When he'd first caught sight of those loose auburn waves, he'd felt like crying out with relief at finally knowing she was safe. And then the sting of grief. The ache in his chest that assails him without pity upon remembering why he is here. He will not admit that he'd wished failure on himself, or mistrust from her.

He'd inwardly begged she wouldn't show.

_Stay away, _he'd willed. _Please, Temperance–just stay away. Run, hide, leave the city. _

But she is too devoted for that. She'd made a mistake, and will not cease until everything is solved, and everything makes sense again. She _needs_ this.

Order. She needs to right her wrongs.

He watches her drift toward an alleyway, her coat pulled tightly around her slim shoulders, withdrawn. She's thinner than he's remembered. And she seems smaller, somehow. So small, so vulnerable now.

_God, _he grieves miserably, feeling emotion choke the air he tries to draw into his lungs.

She's scared.

His eyes scan the sparsely populated area below from his position on the roof, and he is soon able to identify four inconspicuous agents from Intelligence. He knows why they are here. They know his expert proficiency denies the possibility of missing the target.

They are here in the event he doesn't follow through.

They eye her subtly from behind the pretense of nonchalance–whether it be a newspaper stand or tinted windshield of a vehicle. Always on the move, but never breaking distance.

These are professionals. Expert hunters of the human animal. Just like him.

Booth bows his head, feeling a swell of shame spread over him. They are no better than the mercenaries he was trained to destroy. These men lack the emotion she so deserves. They don't really see her. He finds himself infuriated by this.

They will never know her. They will never understand what an honest and truly generous human being she is. Or how her eyes crinkle when she laughs. How her delicate brow knits together in that way that makes him secretly smile whenever she's "squinting" at something, intrigued by life's questions. The way her bottom lip juts out just the smallest fraction when she cries. How she's let him get close to her. Let him be a constant in her life.

Or how, somewhere down the line, she'd stopped demanding he not call her "Bones"–an effort by him intended purposely to annoy–and started responding as if it really was her name.

Or all the other thousand things that now fill his mind in such a desperate hour. They will never know.

Not like him.

And he knows they won't wait forever.

Morality comes in shades of gray. The end, in their minds, justifies the means. A bead of sweat trickles down his neck, smothered a second later by the drizzle of precipitation and the sheen layer of rainwater that already coats him. In the faraway distance, thunder is heard.

A tremor rocks his form. And he knows it's not from the tame autumn chill.

How had it come to this?

Each time she'd turned up at his apartment in need of temporary shelter, a place to hide, he'd never imagined it would come to this. In the morning, she was always gone. Cullen never really knew–he had only just assumed, like everyone else. Booth would never mention her staying to anyone. She was his secret.

His lost angel. And she'd trusted him.

Now, the country he honored and swore to defend had instructed him to murder the woman he cherishes with all his being. His dearest friend.

What he feels for her cannot be described by words alone. They've grown too much, been through too much, together. He… and this woman… who he has no desire to live without. He isn't certain he can.

He is torn in too many directions. He can only save so many. His loyalties between her, his country, Parker…

If he saves one, another will have to die.

He is without control–powerless, and begging God to heal the world. To save his Bones from her own creation, her own madness.

_Necessary, _a voice whispers in his ear.

Down below, she looks ready to depart.

With trembling hands, he takes hold of the stock of his Barrett M82, drawing up and easing it against the coarse ledge of the roof on its bipod. He slides the bolt forward, locking the single bullet into place. The sound is hollow and final and echoes in his ears, twisting the knife in his heart.

Skin is pale and ice to the touch.

He is soaked now from the rain that has begun to progressively intensify. His hair gleams wet and black, droplets coursing down his cheeks, mimicking tears. His eyes threaten to spill over with the tears he doesn't want to give credit to.

He doesn't deserve to grieve. He's made a choice–dared to tempt fate. The decision is not his to suffer.

So he weeps in utter silence, forcing his features into a stoic mask. His jaw clenches tightly, face muscles flexing, and he tries not to feel the burning in his vision or the way his throat closes over every breath he tries to take. The chain of his St. Christopher's medal feels hot around his neck instead of cool.

The rim of his scope rests against the hollow of his right eye, lashes brushing the domed glass. Everything feels delayed thereon, as if dragged through a time warp. Guilt and remorse stain the smooth steel of his weapon in salty condensation.

A sea of auburn fills his scope, and it takes all of his training and all trace of control to force back the sob that catches in the back of his throat.

_Not her… not like this…_

He sends up a final prayer, pleading. He swears he'll give his own life if she only be allowed to live.

_Keep breathing_, he tells her, silently.

His finger slowly finds its way to the trigger, the cool metal biting into his skin. Little by little, everyone else begins to fade away–the people below, the other agents, the cars, everyone. All disappear until only they remain.

This is between them. Anyone else is intruding on a private moment.

It's so familiar that he's almost deceived into comfort.

Silence falls. Seeley Booth is not the only one who can feel his other half.

A tranquil wind picks up, swimming between the raindrops. Slowly, her neck cranes, her features come into his view, and all at once–her eyes are fixed with his. Those eyes, so radiant and full of life and undiscovered mysteries. The breeze catches a few loose strands of auburn across the blue.

He feels his breath catch in his throat. Her face, pale as ever and without makeup, appears unexplainably calm. Even through the slight evidence of sickness–with what lay inside her, her body giving off invisible toxins and poisoning the air–she's never looked more beautiful.

Her expression is knowing. But her eyes, those all-seeing eyes, hold something foreign altogether. Deep in their depths that only he can see. It isn't long before emotions he recognizes, to his great dismay, surface.

Fear. Hurt. And finally, acceptance.

Her eyes tell a story, and he watches as that familiar flicker of pain flashes across them. Disappointment. But also understanding–an odd combination.

The moment holds, suspended. He can hear her voice whispering in his ear as if she were right at his side, where she belongs.

_Are you going to betray me?_

He forces back a final sob. Tells her everything through their locked gaze. Everything he can. If he's honest with himself, he's mad with her. She could attempt to run–flee–like human instinct demands. He'll fire off a shot to make it look good.

_Dammit, Bones! Run!_

But she doesn't.

She remains rooted to the spot, ever loyal to him and what he must do.

_If it had to be anyone…_

Her guardian reaper. There is something tragically poetic about it.

Sometimes, a single life can save countless innocents. That's what he'd been told–had even told himself–before every mission when he'd been a Ranger. Always for the greater good. It was a silver lining to the devastation that lay beneath.

It was an excuse.

_Mindlessly obedient. _

Steeling himself, he sets his position, pulling his weapon tight against his shoulder. With a single breath that breaks the silence, he takes aim, finger curling around the trigger and squeezing.

_Make a choice._

But it was never his choice to make…

The sharp discharge of the sniper rifle shatters the everyday quiet that fills the streets, which erupt now with chaos and blind panic. A drove of birds flutter to life, calling out in their distress and taking flight.

His mark lurches back with the force of the shot and falls to the frozen earth, lifeless before impact.

With every sacrifice, came a betrayal.

* * *

_One should rather die than be betrayed.  
__There is no deceit in death.  
It delivers precisely what it has promised.  
__Betrayal, though... betrayal is the willful slaughter of hope._

-Steven Deitz-


	3. To Deny My Wisdom

**Author's Note: Neeext.**

**Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive critcism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**(For pictures, trailers, etc to this beast of a fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile. You MAY have to friend me, but if you do, I never turn anyone down. You'll be friended back.)**

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO  
**TO DENY MY WISDOM

*

_In this bloody dawn I will wash my soul  
To call the spirit of vengeance  
To deny my wisdom for anger  
To break the scream of the silent fool  
And to be the son of doom_

-Rhapsody-

* * *

_**Guatemala  
1994**_

"_Make a choice, Sergeant Booth." The older man's voice is low and brusque at his right. _

_Eyes like a fawn's stare up at him, innocent and questioning. She is too young to understand–three or four at the very most. All she can comprehend is that these armored men are breaking things all around her, yelling. They are robotic, but she doesn't know what that word means. All she knows is that they do not flinch. _

_She doesn't know their tongue, she can barely speak her own. So she is silent, and remains very still. _

_One man–different somehow from the rest–stands before her, weapon trained, but not quite locked on her form. His face is not hard like the others'. Brown eyes are soft instead of stone. He is younger than her father–younger even than her elder brother. He is still a child, like her. _

_He stiffens, trying to disguise the way his hand shakes. _

_It's a strange anomaly, for certain. His hand never shakes, he never flinches. _

_His superior will not stand for failure. "Her people hide the enemy. They rat out innocent American lives to faceless mercenaries and the guerrilla armies. Those impossible to bring to justice."_

"_But she doesn't," he wants to say. His voice is too choked, throat doesn't function. _

_This feels wrong. Nerves are like fire, warning against. _

_She's not much more than an infant. Ingenuous black eyes watch him carefully. Tan-skinned, dusty round cheeks, mop of rumpled black hair. This child, this beautiful little child they'd found hiding amongst the rice and crates of wheat, is not guilty of anything._

_Duty outweighs conscience today. _

_The child tips her head in cautious study of the young man. He looks sad. _

_She hugs her knees closer to her tiny form, shivering in the Guatemalan heat. _

_It isn't long after that his rank ascends to Master Sergeant._

The innocent are never spared.

_The first of many nightmares he has about that particular Guatemalan assignment finds him bent over his bathroom sink, dry heaving. Hours into the morning, and he is still curled in the empty bathtub, shaking and victim to tears._

* * *

_**Washington DC  
**__**October 2nd, 2009**_

_Are you going to betray me?_

Booth squeezes the trigger, jaw set in determined wrath. Face a thundercloud. Suddenly, he is furious.

_No._

He is done looking back and feeling the onerous guilt over choosing the wrong side, time and time again. Looking the other way while simultaneously pulling the trigger. Following with blind faith, those who would rather watch from afar, often with ulterior motives. Killing on demand, without question.

It feels too dirty. Too much like Gormogon.

He's done abusing those deemed more expendable, those less fortunate than the leaders. Whether a leader of a high school hallway or first world country. Protocol and Law of the Jungle demanded those with lesser importance be sacrificed on a whim so that the stronger could survive. Or those who are punished for the crimes of others.

The weak are never spared. The innocent never exalted.

* * *

_His resolution falters. Blinks back the rush of adrenaline that befalls him. The little voice whispering in his ear about serving one's country is ignored. Mourned, but forgotten._

_Either way, he feels weak. _

_He can't. _

"_What?" The reprimanding bark of his commanding officer makes him jerk in response. _

_Without fail, he always manages to find a way to let down the father figures in his life. A faithful disappointment._

"_I can't," his voice is small, gaze pinned to the rotted earth beneath their feet. His superior growls out a curse. He winces, eyes sliding shut against the offhanded castigation. "I'm sorry." _

_The sun beats down from above, smothering them in unforgiving heat. Sweat-coated brows, pounding hearts. Judgment suffers. _

_They are short on time. His superior thinks he is speaking to him. Suddenly, the weapon is seized from his hand and a loud shot splits the chaotic air like a thunderclap. He spasms in shock, so torn that, for a moment, he thinks the bullet has lodged in his own chest. Hesitant to open his eyes, he is pained to no longer see those big pure eyes he'd just addressed looking back at him._

_He cannot move. He doesn't even notice his weapon being shoved back into his hands. _

"_It's done," rings the voice in his ear. And it is. _

_Another soul erased. Another piece of his own chipped away. _

_His superior shouts off some routine orders to the swarm of soldiers flocking about behind them, then his attention slingshots back to his subordinate. _

_"I like you, Booth. One day, you'll take my place. You're a perfect soldier, a machine. You don't ask questions–you get the job done. You're my best sniper, my best tracker. We're all allowed to have off days. The credit goes to you on this one. That's the end of it. Won't discuss it further." _

_And then, the final twist of the knife. The justification. _

_"She would've died anyway." With that, he claps a hand on the young man's shoulder, squeezing once. "Good man." And he's gone._

_Booth feels anything but. Tears brim his eyes–it is the first time he's cried over enemy casualty. For the very first time, reality hits him. This is not a game. Everything is real, too real. Before, he'd been too young, too naïve, to truly understand. Before, he'd just followed orders. _

_He'll continue to do so, but now he will feel every shot like it's meant for him._

She would have died anyway...

_It echoes in his ears, haunting, like something alive._

"_Cortman!" he hears his superior snap. Glancing to his right, he sees one of his fellow comrades bring their heads up attentively. "Torch the rice."_

_The other soldier gives a sharp nod, if a little distracted. Mostly, his focus is on Booth. Dark green eyes bore into him, critical with disapproval. "What the hell was that?" they read. _

_He is the one they all look up to. So why does it feel like they are all looking down on him now? Booth lowers his gaze, wishing he could disappear from the eyes of his regiment. _

_Either way, he feels like a failure. _

Not his choice to make.

_He hadn't done it. But he hadn't stopped it, either._

* * *

No more. He knows now which side to choose. It has never been clearer.

The first agent from Intelligence closest to Brennan lurches back with the force of the shot that slams from the M82, falling to the frozen earth–lifeless before impact. Screams of alarm immediately follow, and the passing streetwalkers begin to flee. No sense of definite direction, just in search of cover and to escape the vicinity of the fresh corpse corrupting the sidewalk.

To save one, another would have to die.

He is designed to be a Protector. He was never meant for the things they ask of him.

_Paladin._

He protected his family from his father, his fellow soldiers from the enemy… he is the leader of teams. The leader defends, sacrifices. At least a good one does.

The remaining three agents had barely comprehended the shift of his rifle muzzle, the shift of his expression. All they'd seen was a shadow of doubt, a flicker of danger on the horizon. Too soon to have told anything, and now too late to do anything about.

Rainfall intensifies.

He recalls he's only taken one bullet with him. They know he never misses, so there was no reason for auxiliary rounds. But this is just for the Barrett.

He abandons the weapon, senses surging into overload as the second agent promptly opens fire at the roof. He takes cover below the ledge as shots scream by and notch the cement.

This doesn't stop him or slow him.

He coasts along the wall, ducked low and out of sight, drawing the Beretta from his shoulder holster. Quickening his pace, he chances a look below.

The third agent is closing in on an alarmed and immobile Brennan, drawing a Glock and advancing.

Disregarding the agent intent on ending him, he swings over the ledge in a vault that sends him dropping several stories down. Lashing out with his free arm, he grabs hold of a fire escape railing, clenching his teeth around the yell that wants to break free when his shoulder is nearly wrenched from the socket. Momentum carries him further, and his boots slam against the exterior of the building. He keeps his grip tight on the slick rail.

With one shove of his legs, he's over the barrier of the safety mechanism and descending the metal stairs two at a time. He sees the agent with the Glock draw a bead, and shouts that Brennan, "get down!" Breaking momentarily, he shoots off some cover fire to give her a chance to do so.

Hell breaks loose. Shots ring out on the DC streets. Screams, terror.

Disloyalty.

He feels a bite in his thigh and stumbles against the grating of the fire escape. In glance, he sees the blood oozing down his black cargos just above his knee. Ignoring the fiery sensation the bullet leaves behind, he makes a running leap across, landing violently on a lower fire escape where he continues his turbulent descent.

Reaching this one's limit, an outcrop of the building's exterior confronts him. He jumps for it, bracing his boots and free palm against the wall before impelling himself back in the direction he'd come in a remarkable display of parkour. His feet slip a fraction against the elements, but he grips the lowermost rung of the escape, and the ladder quickly begins to slide.

Releasing the rung as soon as it reaches its maximum length, he drops. Boots hit the ground jarringly. Water sloshes and droplets gush. He rolls over his shoulder to break the fall. A racing shadow, a single force.

He sprints for her.

Unrepentant. Her image is all he sees.

_Save her_, his heart commands.

There is no logic to it, no careful thought. Now there is only instinct. Bones is in danger.

She'd thought she was going to die. Her faith in him had faltered, no matter how briefly. Her heart had seized, her bravery had splintered. But now, her breath catches in her throat, awed. For the rain and crowd part and, like a candle in the darkness, he is there.

Mother Nature's fury bears down on the city, harsh and unforgiving. He moves like a panther–fast, savage, and deadly.

Sometimes you need to bring back the monster to get the hero.

"_Agents under fire! Agents under fire! Negative! Attacker is _not_ patient zero! Deadshot is on the move and hostile_!"

Ignoring the rounds hurtling past him, he snaps in another clip and draws his Beretta before him, putting a bullet in the shooter's heart. Four more loping strides, and he pops two into the windshield of the agent's vehicle, who has radioed for backup.

Lethal precision. Glass and skull shatter. The agent is dead.

Vision tunnels.

Looking ahead, he sees the last remaining come out from behind cover, seeking out the established target. When he doesn't immediately zero in on the rather conspicuous FBI agent pounding across the street, Booth at once knows who the agent is searching for. He pours on the speed.

Before the man can fully make it to his feet, he is at Brennan's side, wrapping his free arm around her, pulling her back, and stanchly locking on to the Intelligence agent with his M9. Both defenders maintain a solid, unwavering bead on the other.

"Drop it," comes the sharp order, loud above the rain.

He doesn't move, doesn't speak, but the air of menace around him is palpable. Mouth set in an ominous line. Visage harsh and forbidding. He can hear her shallow breaths beside him. Her palms press against his chest, delicate nose brushing at his jaw.

He tightens his hold on her protectively. No harm shall come to her.

"Is this how you want to be remembered, Agent Booth?" The man takes a step closer, not liking the situation, but keeping his voice level and precise. "A traitor to your country?"

"Back off." His voice is a jagged growl. Brown eyes are black and serrated, rip into the opposing force.

"There'll be Shields down here within five minutes. I can wait until then."

"Last chance."

"Try me, Ranger."

With unforeseen speed, he shoves his partner down, below the danger. FBI and CIA square off, interagency bloodshed igniting. Twin thunderclaps command the air.

Brennan screams as Booth takes a hit to the chest and lurches back. The Intelligence agent sinks to the ground with a bullet between the eyes.

He grimaces, doubling over slightly as she catches him in her arms. "Booth," her broken voice sounds at his side, drowned out by rain and wind. Frantic concern lacing that one syllable is tangible and almost alive.

He swallows a groan, leaning heavily against the supportive tower her slight frame provides. With one hand he reaches up and yanks down the zipper on his saturated jacket, revealing the Kevlar vest.  
Relief courses through her, hampering her equilibrium enough to where she has to clutch at the folds of his jacket to remain upright. Her forehead collapses against his neck.

Sirens wail down the street, closing the distance quickly. He holsters his weapon, taking Brennan's hand and leading her into the mouth of the alley. She squeezes tighter, finding immediate comfort in his touch. Her adrenaline erases any ability to speak coherently.

"Where are we going?" she breathes, slender legs striving to keep up with his as they race together down the alleyway.

He doesn't know. All he is sure of is that she's alive and with him. Safe.

Her hand in his is enough.

"Just run."


	4. The Sacrifices We Make

****

**Author's Note: Another update. Also, I'm almost completely finished with this fanfic. Only a few chapters to go. Then some routine edits and once overs through the rough draft chaps. When totally complete, I'll be able to update much faster. More than once a week, at any rate. **

**Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive critcism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**(For pictures, trailers, etc to this beast of a fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile. You may have to friend me, but if you do, I never turn anyone down. You'll be friended back.)**

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER THREE  
**THE SACRIFICES WE MAKE

*

_I've got no reason to be proud  
Drink this water around me before I drown  
All the flowers die tonight  
Teardrops falling down my face  
All the candles lose their flame  
God save the queen, but why can't God save me?_

_The more we grow, the less we know  
Until the time we lose it all_

-Lost Soul-

* * *

They've been running for well over twenty minutes, swallowing ground quickly. It is not a very long time. The blink of an eye in a day, a breath in a week, and the life cycle of one heartbeat in a lifetime. But so much can happen in twenty minutes. Each minute can retain different consequences.

Lives change in less time–they are put on the line in seconds. Souls can be steadfast white, then darkening gray at one pull of a trigger.

Brennan had always hated time. There was too little of it, but it was so effortless to lose one's self within the very fabric of it. Time went on without delay, but past years–decades, even–seemed only days forgotten.

Rain gave birth to moments. Each drop a chronicle of existence. The force behind each gale, each fall of rain, signified ever-changing dispositions.

The heavens pour. It is not a cleansing rain. Mud squelches underfoot, challenging their driving footfalls. Fueling their desperation.

Her chest heaves with each shallow breath. Panting, trying to maintain her stamina. She is in excellent condition, but now that they are out of the city, the danger gone, her adrenaline is fast siphoning. Throat raw, muscles cramping.

The mud is like quicksand, and she is soaked to the bone–the both of them sopping.

Her logical mind strives to break down the events that occurred moments previous. But she isn't certain where to begin, so she decides that, for now, running is good. Even with their destination yet undetermined, she trusts her well-being fully unto the man ahead of her. This is what she knows. This has never changed, never failed her.

He guides her forward, a steadfast compass, and she faithfully follows.

He doesn't suffer the elements quite so difficultly as she. His past and personal experiences have accustomed him to conditions such as these. Despite this, however, his silence is unnerving. He hasn't spoken to her since the escape through the alley. Only surges determinedly ahead, intent on getting her away from the danger that hunts them.

Her concern for him is flagrant, but she doesn't know what to do with it. She needs to hear his voice.

Thoughts run faster than his legs can follow. Despite their notable speed, he feels as though he's running in treacle. A great weight manifests on his shoulders, bearing him down. Weighing on his heart.

_Traitor._

She finally releases his hand as he slows them to an eventual standstill. For a fleeting moment, he can't tell up from down. The world around him begins to spin. The realization of what he's just done slowly seeps into his consciousness. Invisible claws dig into his chest.

In less than five minutes, he'd defied a direct order from the United States government, shot and killed three American law enforcement officials–his own men, betrayed his country, and is now a fugitive from the law.

_His own men, killed his own men. Your own men. Dead. Traitor. _

What will happen now–now that he's committed such monstrous crimes? What will happen now that he hasn't sacrificed her for the cause? What will they…

_Oh, God…_

All at once, he can't breathe. The air abandons his lungs without warning. He feels paralyzed. The scenery charges past him, paying no heed that he is unmoving.

What would happen if he'd _had_? The reality of what he'd nearly done strikes him like no bullet or explosion could. The horrid truth demands his every awareness.

_Almost... you almost... auburn hair backdrops the crosshairs... unthinkable..._

_Save one... others would have to die..._

He'd felt the freezing pain wash over him on that roof upon realizing what he had to do. Their greatest weapon turned against them.

The rushing in his ears intensifies, and he feels the ground beneath him disappear. His vision darkens around the edges the moment his balance deserts him. Everything he's _done_, intended, left behind, assaults him all at once, and it's too much.

She watches as her partner sinks to his knees and immediately empties the contents of his stomach. For a time, she remains away from him. Hesitant in any approach. But even still, her crystal eyes watch over him carefully, despite feeling inelegant in her awkward distance. She longs to reach out to him, but stays helpless as his world falls down around him.

He feels everything she has felt.

In spite of their communal desolation, the gap between them feels like a chasm.

When the sounds of retching subside, she braves the unknown, walking slowly toward him. He remains on his knees, one palm pressed into the sodden grass, fingers splayed. The other clutches his middle as shudders wrack his frame. He coughs weakly, breathing in shallow rasps.

She lowers herself beside him, gently placing a hand between his shoulder blades through the black fabric. The way his body trembles under her touch leaves another rift in her already bruised heart. Allowing him to gain his bearings, as much as he can, she stays there with him for longer than she can recall.

Simply offering him her presence, as all the times he has done for her. Minutes unspool without regard.

Those men he'd killed–had they had families? Loved ones? She can only imagine what weighs so heavily on his soul now. Her own conscience suffers daily from the consequences her many incurable mistakes have left behind. This consuming guilt is suffocating. The past few days had taken every ounce of her strength just to wake up for the day. Sleep brought such comfort, when the nightmares stayed away. Reality forgotten, dreams could bring promising alternatives. False hope.

Once, together they had saved lives. Now, they destroy them. For the first time since they've grown closer, she doesn't know what to say to ease his mind. She doesn't know how to comfort a person whose torment she feels just as keenly.

Together, bowed over each other, they welcome the rain.

_What have we done?_

"Booth," she begins gently, finally, voice laden with grief. "I… I'm so sorry." She speaks of everything. There's too much to be sorry for. Too much regret to put a name to. She can't begin to identify them all. Her own sins shine through, but the knowledge of what he's done tips the scales almost equally.

Will he ever forgive himself? Will he ever forgive her for forcing such a monstrous act upon him? He's killed his own men–to save her. When she is the cause behind all the afflictions of the growing threat. One question assails her mind in the din of the other thousands.

_Why?_

She has to know.

Her voice is small. Very unlike her obstinate confidence. "What you did…" She flinches when he tenses under her fingers.

All she wants is to understand. If she's honest with herself, she's upset with him. Severely troubled by his actions, and the consequences they entail beneath the surface. Ice settles over her spine. Her own thoughts drown out the sound of the downpour that surrounds them.

"You had every reason to," stumbling gracelessly over her words, she falls further soft-spoken. "Why?" she whispers. Madness flickers closer to the surface. Dormant, waiting. "Why didn't you…? Booth, they'll come after you."

Now she is truly afraid, realization evolving with her discourse. The underlying emotion quickly rises to the surface. His own men will hunt him now. Because of her. The contrition is overwhelming. The air rushes from her lungs. She's drowning.

No. _No, no, no…_ he can't die because of her again.

Panic. A surge of protectiveness–this time she needs to shield _him_.

"_Why_?" she gasps, shaking him. Indignant on his behalf. "You should have just—"

"Dammit, Temperance!" he finally snaps, wrenching himself away from her and stumbling to his feet. His suddenly tearful gaze burns into her own. Hurt flashing in his eyes. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

She can only stare at him in response, shivering when there's no cold. Her wide, uncertain eyes reflect the vying emotions swelling in her chest. They are both exhausted and pushed to their limits. Both terrified for the other.

"_Me_?" she bites back finally, confusion and anger lacing the single syllable. "You just had to do what you always do! You can't stop looking out for me and now look what's happened! The Infection's no less cured, and now we're _both_ on the run! What about your job?" Her volume intensifies almost to hysteria. Impassioned now, frozen in horrified dismay. "What about _Parker_—?"

"Will you shut up for once?!" She might be hurt by the way he yells at her if it isn't for the fact that he's crying. "I almost fucking killed you!" His speech becomes too choked and he struggles for the calm. The sense of desperation is like a living thing growing inside him. "I had orders to terminate you on sight!"

_Traitor to _her_... this is worse... this is... almost killed her. Killed, _killed_, almost ended her life. _

_Choice... not my choice... save Bones... had to save... _

Heart pounds, his legs are weak. Breath trapped in his chest.

She is staggered at the utter despair in his voice and the harsh weight his words carry, pushed by surprise into silence. Her eyes fill, tears hovering on her lower lashes. Biting down firmly on her bottom lip, she tries to erase the memory of him with the muzzle of a rifle aimed at her.

Booth... ready to silence her. _Booth_.

Unthinkable, inconceivable.

_My protector._

Despite the truth, despite that she'd known he'd be doing the right thing, the sight of him there with his weapon had shattered her. But with the knowledge of how he'd safeguarded and defended her over the past four years–often with his life–she can only imagine the anguish it had held over him.

_This is decimating him..._

He no longer shouts, only watches her helplessly with glistening eyes that she's become closely familiar with over the course of their partnership. "Bones," he whispers, the name a welcome memory of past ease. An underlying fracture makes his voice catch. It is small, hurting. He is lost.

He'd be lost without her, she realizes.

"I almost…"

The rain has died down.

A drop melds with the stream on the icy roundness of her cheek. If he'd intended on finishing what he was saying, she doesn't give him the chance. Exhaling a tearful sigh, she throws her arms around him and holds him. Instantly, his own encircle her, clinging to her as if she's his last breath.

His anchor. And he is hers.

They fall into each other in desperation, stabilizing and comforting the other at the same time. They've been apart–forced from each other–for too long. Without the other's presence. At long last, the floodgates crash open from the surge of reckless emotion.

Time is forged on the basic simplicity of one's own perceptions. Though only months, the time apart feels like years.

"I know," she whispers back. And she does.

He sobs into her hair with utter lack of control. "I'm sorry," he cries. Begging forgiveness. "Bones, I'm so sorry."

_Please, please, oh God, please..._

She pulls him closer, clutching at the fabric of his jacket and covering it with her tears. They're both shaking so violently–as if the temperature has dropped forty degrees. Her face presses against his chest, searching out his heartbeat. Evidence of their mutual survival.

The things he does for her, the measures he takes to ensure her safety, it startles her. It scares her to death.

She knows the man he is. A loyal warrior to the country he serves, the country he loves and has very nearly died for on countless occasion. But in that one moment when his homeland had threatened her, he became a betrayer.

She hates that nothing in the world is a constant. Just when she's stalwartly certain of an accurate conclusion, logic vanishes and leaves her abandoned.

But not him. Never him.

Lately, logic had been frequently deceiving her. One thing will always remain a constant, though, and she finds promising comfort in that.

He will always be her savior.

She'd known. Hiding from retribution, fighting to restore life against her devastating aberration... she'd known.

_Booth will come._ _He'll come, and everything will be fine. Everything will be better. _He'd save her, so that she could save the world.

She feels a blossoming warmth as new tears spring into her eyes.

"Booth," she whispers, drawing him tighter.

Surrounded by him, everything makes sense. His arms are her shelter, her sanctuary.

He breathes her in deeply, confidant that she is safe–if only for now. This moment will last. A moment full of truth. More than they know. More than they've ever shared before. Things are shifting, changing. _Happening_.

But he is grateful they have one another. Even if suffering, they are not suffering alone. There is no cause that can separate.

* * *

_Teardrops falling down my face  
__Look at me now, I'm so broken and empty  
__Why does it always rain on me?  
__Give me your heart so I can live_


	5. The Strength We Divide

**Author's Note: Another update. Giddyup. **

**Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**(For pictures, trailers, etc to this beast of a fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile. You may have to friend me, but if you do, I never turn anyone down. You'll be friended back.)**

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR**  
THE STRENGTH WE DIVIDE

*

_No matter what I say or do  
I still feel you here till the moment I'm gone  
You hold me without touch, you keep me without chains  
I never wanted anything so much  
Than to drown in your love and not feel your rain_

_Set me free, leave me be  
I don't want to fall another moment into your gravity  
Here I stand so tall, just the way I'm supposed to be  
But you're on to me  
You loved me cause I'm fragile, when I thought that I was strong  
But you touch me for a little while, and all my fragile strength is gone_

-Gravity-

* * *

_**May 22nd, 2009**_

"_Solving life's quandaries, Dr. Brennan?" the soothing baritone queries, drawing her back from her own thought course. _

_Goodman's return to the lab had been easy and accepted._

_She knows he wonders when she'll be back and fully focused on the Jeffersonian's many varied obligations that call to her daily. But her time has been snagged–if only provisionally. She hopes this will all be over soon. This new mission has left her dry and sleepless nights have commandeered many an evening. _

_A tired sigh. She pulls away from the microscope. Observant eyes blink repeatedly, seeking to adjust. "One might hope, yes." This is all she concedes. _

_He notices the enthusiasm that ordinarily accompanies her tone is severely lacking–has been for the past two weeks. Those eyes she'd so often searched with for all life's answers and questions are hooded now in weary shadows. Her pallor is beginning to resemble the hue worn most often by the subjects her work entails. _

"_Arduous endeavor, is it?" He offers her a sympathetic expression–somewhere between a smile and understanding frown. _

_She folds her arms over her chest. Shakes her head. "It's not that," she amends. But it is. "Rather…"_

_Her gaze falls. _

"_Dr. Goodman, I'd prefer to not elaborate on it, but I do appreciate your concern." The tone is sincere as she peers up at him, but there is a beseeching in her gaze–an underlying fracture to the prominent cool exterior. _

_He provides a nod that generates warmth. "I understand. As of now, I've a meeting in five minutes. I'll speak with you then, after it concludes?" _

_She smiles at him, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Thank you."_

_Following his departure, prepared to delve back into her work, she feels a tap on her shoulder. Though her initial response is to suffer annoyance, instead an unexpected swell of appreciation fills her. _

"_Hey, Bones." _

_Those words are all she needs, all she craves, and her disposition is notably brighter._

_That endearingly chipper voice of her partner, who now leans against a tall until beside her. Where he finds the energy for his constant good mood, she will never know. Offering him a tired but welcoming smile, she acknowledges him before straying back to her microscope. Although she does not look through it. Her eyes don't seem to want to focus now. _

_After a suspended moment involving her staring at the piece of equipment with sad, unreadable eyes, he finally gives her a gentle nudge. "Hey, you okay?"_

_Considering briefly, she squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head. "No."_

_Her sudden honesty throws him. The vulnerability startles him. He isn't used to this from her. Not prepared. He is so accustomed to Trooper-Bones that his voice catches in the back of his throat. Unsure of the correct response. _

"_I can't do this, Booth."_

_Her discouraged confession kindles an unpleasant sensation within him. Makes his stomach knot. "What do you mean?"_

_The look on her face tugs his heartstrings. Her temple rests in her palm, eyes closed and she breathes a sigh. "I can't give them the results they're asking for by the deadline they've established. This is a very delicate method. A delicate substance, at that, and it's just too soon. I just–I can't, Booth…" _

_Her voice grows so soft and beleaguered that he finds himself forcefully repressing the urge to pick her up and carry her straight to her office, where she can sleep for the next two days on her couch. Such an action might usually earn him an armful of irate forensic anthropologist, but what concerns him most is that, right now, he doesn't think she'd put up a fight._

_He doesn't like this. Her being bullied into a premature decision. It isn't her. It isn't right. It's foreign and she's exhausted. _

_Placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder, he steps closer before taking a seat beside her. "Why are they turning you into Atlas? Metaphor," he explains softly at her briefly puzzled expression. "I mean, you're not really that brand of scientist, are you?"_

"_Atlas suffered from the weight of the world on his shoulders," she acknowledges quietly, staring at him now. "Unable to attain relief from the burden he held. The only time he did was when he mislead Hercules and transferred the weight." An admiring expression brightens her countenance, and he smiles. "Atlas delighted in his momentary respite until the time came for him to shoulder the Earth again."_

_His eyes sparkle at her in return. Eager to lift her spirits. "So the story goes."_

"_While I may not be that sort of scientist, per say, I am also a pollster of the human species. I'm well-versed in a surfeit of knowledge regarding our bodies' immune system and all nervous and musculature structures therein. Plus another book full of added relevance you'd find boring and longwinded. Unfortunately, my expertise and apparent level of acumen on this matter alerted their radar. So… here I am, without rest or respite." Another brief smile. Her next words taste bitter in her mouth. "And all the more opposed to these trials."_

_Booth flashes her a crooked grin. "The price one pays, I suppose, for being such a smarty." At his words, his knuckles tweak her nose._

_Wrinkling the protuberance in question, her eyes spark in mutual affection. "Is that your excuse then for your unhealthy aversion toward all things scientific?"_

_He takes the bait, brown eyes twinkling. "Ignorance is bliss, Bones." _

_She smiles, and this one reaches her eyes. Though she doesn't look forward to the daunting task which yet awaits her attention. _

"_I'm getting hungry," she suddenly decides, feeling playful and spontaneous. His presence always has a habit of lightening her disposition. "Will you come and get me in say, twenty minutes? I'm in the mood for Thai." _

_Goodman will wait. For when Booth's grin evolves into an even wider smile, lighting up his entire face, she feels only accomplishment and satisfaction. _

"_Sure, Bones."_

_With that, he rises. Garish tie straightens under his hand. He moves to leave, but holds back._

"_You know…" _

_She turns to see him regarding her with a shadow of what was that devastating charm of his. _

"_You don't have to suffer like you do. You're allowed to share the burden a little." The banter dilutes just enough to reveal that meaningful look that lies beneath, his eyes conveying all. "I can be Hercules." _

If you let me_, those eyes of his silently add._

* * *

It feels like nothing else in the world exists besides them, holding each other as the moments slip by unnoticed.

She finds that being enclosed in Seeley Booth's arms is not so repellent as she might've thought three and a half years ago, upon their first rocky encounter.

She holds no guesstimate on how much time has passed, finds it doesn't matter. She is aware, though, that this is the longest they've ever spent so close. She isn't bothered.

There is no fear in his embrace. No injustice. Only absolute security.

The tears had faded with the rain, and a healing silence falls between them. His hand smoothes down her hair in soothing cadence while his other rests naturally over the small of her back. She knows this. Pale cheek presses just below his shoulder, searching out his warmth.

Her eyes finally open to make certain they are still where they'd been before.

Nuzzling her face against him, eyes close again. She sniffs back a straggling tear–gone before it can fall–but making the blue shimmer all the more.

Delicate fingers trace slow, calming patterns on his back. She's not certain she's offering him any semblance of reassurance, but is more than aware of the solace he provides her. Feels the weight of the world slowly lifting from her shoulders.

_My Hercules._

Even when she protests his antiquated chivalry, teases him for it relentlessly, she is always silently grateful for his caring. Always stressing that she'd never needed a man to look after her or shield her, and maybe that was true. She's had part of it right.

For she needs _him_ like the oxygen to breathe. It is completely unfounded, yet all the same not. How can something so ridiculous make such perfect sense?

Relief in his presence. Sincerely hoping she offers up some of the same relief. With this thought, Brennan finally finds her voice.

"Were you scared?" It's a quiet mumble against him.

He shifts in her arms. "Yes."

His voice is barely audible from the lack of use and the torrents of emotion shed, so he clears his throat. Strong arms draw her closer still. He's still afraid she'll be taken from him. Disappear from his sight.

"So scared."

Allowing this to settle in, though reluctant to move, she finally begins to extract her arms. Still not ready to withdraw from him completely, her hands lay on his chest. She traces the rough contours of the plated fabric with her fingers. Blinks slowly.

The question, unable to place before, rises to the surface now.

_Why did he wear a vest?_

Surely they hadn't expected her to attack him. He'd know she never would.

_Unless he'd expected to be shot at. Planned to. _

Her chest seizes. She won't voice the question. She already knows–the evidence speaks, the answer is right before her eyes.

He'd planned for the worst, from both sides of the battle. Both endings to the ultimate decision. In the end, he couldn't not protect her.

Her eyes slide shut again, inhaling deeply. A tremble stirs her, but it fades when he finally speaks against her hair. Voice low, frame straightening.

"We… should really get moving." His words are reluctant, unwanted.

Knowing it is inevitable, she nods slightly, pulling away to meet his eyes. She hasn't stepped out of his arms.

Breathing deeply, he doesn't break the connection. The clearness her eyes unknowingly convey soothes him and lessens the weight on his own shoulders. He's always enjoyed looking at her.

The fair skin of her face is paler than natural, more ashen. Reminds him of the most expensive porcelain, and he is wary she might break just the same–with what lay inside her. Without her makeup, he can discern the barest rim of red under her eyes and the shadows beneath.

Around the brilliant cerulean of her irises, a faint gray halo encircles them. Though tainted by the contagion, she is not however at any risk to herself. She is entirely immune to the disease, inside and out.

She could very well signify the extinction of the human race.

And yet, her beauty endures, and he vows to guard her with his last breath.

He remembers now why he saved her. Defended her against his own men and flag. There're too many reasons to specify, too many he's not ready to face. But he knows a dominant portion.

It was because of those siren eyes, and that tender, velvet touch. It is her heart that melted him, the person she is. _Who_ she is.

Even when she frets over his alpha male behavior, teases him for it relentlessly, he doesn't care. It only means that much more, for the times when she allows him to save her. He needs her more than he is comfortable to admit. She is his downfall at the same time she is his saving grace.

Trying times are ahead. But together, they will endure.

They'll become something more. If mankind survives, their names will go down in history. Always paired, partnered.

You could never have Lewis without the Clarke.

Booth and Brennan.

He draws her closer. Lips press softly against her forehead. Lingering, _showing_. Showing, when words are not enough.

At last he pulls back, and rests his own against hers, gazing down at her lovingly. Radiating strength. Her eyes flutter shut, and a healthy hue dusts her cheeks in pink. Her chin dips low, but she laces her fingers through his.

Though she smiles, there is sadness in her voice. "You shouldn't kiss me."

He ducks his head to meet her lowered gaze, nose brushing hers. Eyes are half-lidded for them both. His voice is not much more than a whisper. "Why not?"

The honest innocence behind his tone elicits a quivering in her middle and an ache in her heart. Staring up at him, seeing the desired longing in his eyes, she is adrift in promising waters. Trying to remember why he shouldn't. "I…"

It's less than a whisper. Only her lips form the start of it.

Summoning her voice, she tells him. "I could hurt you."

It is a reminder full of regret.

A flicker of realization in his eyes, and he offers her a small and reassuring smile. Immune to the airborne spread, he is not at risk in her presence. Even the contact strains have proved him no ill effects, so far. But there are other ways to acquire the deadly virus. He knows that, in her mind, those unsolved are never to be tested.

He's too important.

Nodding, he pulls away. Gives her hand a gentle squeeze. "We should start devising some plans, huh?"

Already, she misses his proximity and touch, but nods in response. "Yes." She hugs her form, taking in the scenery around them. "Such as where we're going and what we're going to do?" She doesn't want this. Not for him.

"Should definitely start with those." No humor. Only truth.

Quiet determination is shared between them, weighing down the air.

She hesitates. He kicks at the damp earth and rocks halfheartedly with the toe of his boot. "Our own people will be after us. Our government. Your agency." She speaks quietly with underlying implication, gazing listlessly at her feet. Finally, her courage builds and she meets his eyes. "Are we going to do this?"

He regards her for a time. Dark eyes penetrating and brimming with too many emotions to read at once. He takes a step toward her, conveying the most meaningful expression he's ever given her. Pooling brown bores into shining translucence. "_You_, Bones. I'm with you." This promise is rife with solemn consequence. "It's always going to be you."

* * *

_It is only after disaster that we can be resurrected._

-Tyler Durden-

* * *


	6. The Consequences We Reap

**Author's Note: Booya. Onward, excelsior. **

**Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile! **

* * *

**CHAPTER FIVE**  
THE CONSEQUENCES WE REAP

*

_Everyone came around here, everyone else got sick  
And watched the clock ticking slowly  
Everyone knew the ending  
Well it's far away in a hurricane, twisting slowly  
Now it's gone today: it's the end of the world_

_My world, my love, my gun  
Now I'm all alone_

-End of the World-

* * *

_**June 28th, 2009**_

"_The world of medicine has seen its share of miracle cures," the female television host recaps, eyes locked on the camera in confidence. "From the polio vaccine, to heart transplants. But all past achievements may pale in comparison to the work of Dr. Temperance Brennan. Previously known for her work as an accomplished author and forensic anthropologist working in league with the FBI." Her line of sight transfers to her guest. Flashes the dazzling smile that landed her the job. "Thank you so much for joining us today."_

_Brennan shifts uncomfortably in her seat, eyes flittering about for possible getaway routes. Or for the man who can offer her said means of escape. He is supposed to be picking her up. And she's never been one for interviews. "Yes, I'm…" she trails off, forcing a hesitant smile, "happy to be here."_

"_Doctor Brennan," the host begins, fine eyebrows arching into her forehead with enthusiasm. "Give it to me in a nutshell."_

_Confident that she's thinking of the correct idiom, Brennan clears her throat quietly. "I'll… do my best. Usually, it's my partner who helps me with the transference into layman's terms."_

_The host offers her a pleasant hum of amusement. "Of course. Please, go on as best you can."_

"_Well," Brennan begins, taking a deep breath, "the premise is fairly simple. Take something designed by nature and formed by evolution and reprogram it to work _for_ the body, rather than against it."_

"_We're talking about a virus?"_

"_Basically, yes." _

_She's relieved that there's no need to fill in the gaping blanks for this reporter as she's so often had to in the past–explaining the scientific processes to others._

"_In this case, the measles. Which has now been engineered at a genetic level to be helpful, rather than harmful. I'll try to simplify what would take hours of explanation and borrow the same comparison I used for my partner."_

_She shifts again in her seat, feeling less awkward. Readying her hands if in need of a gesture._

"_If you could visualize your body as… as a highway, and you picture the virus as a speeding car. Say, for example, that car is being operated by a criminal. Imagine the damage that car could cause. However," Brennan goes on, "if you were then to replace that man with someone from law enforcement, you can begin to see a different depiction. And, essentially, that's what we've done." _

"_Right." The host is eager now. The audience, riveted. "So… how many people have you treated?"_

_Brennan feels an intermissive weight descend in her middle for reasons she can't explain. "The… the initial trials were… performed upon a willing host." Absentmindedly, her fingers massage the inside of her elbow, over the syringe marks hidden by her sleeve. "Upon lack of negative side effects, we then began to treat multiple patients in the DC area. An estimated four hundred and nineteen."_

"_And how many are cancer-free?"_

"_An estimated four hundred and nineteen."_

"_So…" the host's eyes widen with unbridled delight, knowing she and this quote will go down in history, "you have actually _cured_ cancer?"_

_She hesitates. Gaze lowering to the floor as a bittersweet sensation washes over her. "Yes," she answers finally, voice quiet but laden with emotion. "We have."_

_The remainder of the interview is a blur. All the sounds surrounding her are muffled, and she can barely discern the fervent questions from the rushing in her ears._

* * *

"_Bones!" He makes his way over to his retreating partner, navigating through the small crowd in the television studio. "Bones!"_

_Hearing his identifiable voice above the calm din bellowing for her, Brennan slows until he can catch up and begins to walk in pace with him. "You're late?"_

_His face scrunches and regards her warily, sensing he is in trouble. "What? No, you said to pick you up after four. I'm actually early, if you'll notice." He proceeds to jab at his wristwatch while assuming full charm-mode. "Three forty-one."_

_She recognizes his sweet beguiling as an effort to get on her good side. What should have annoyed her is found only endearing. "I'm not mad, Booth. I was just hoping you'd arrive before I went on and spare me the interview altogether." _

"_Oh." His face falls slightly in mild puzzlement as he keeps stride with her. "Well, you were great, by the way. I caught most of it. I don't know what you're so worried about."_

"_Booth," she shakes her head, looking dispirited. "I don't like doing these television interviews. I agreed to head this research for my own motivations. None of which include international recognition and Nobel prizes." Frowning, she tries to keep the anxiety from her voice. "I'm not even certain of my continued espousal toward this entire situation."_

"_Remember that thing I said about definitive tones?" he reminds hopefully, gesturing animatedly with his hands. "Just because you say it that way–"_

"_Espousal can either mean support, keenness, enthusiasm… do you want me to continue?"_

"_No, that about covers it. Thanks." A grin flashes as they pass through the exit, making their way outside. "So about–"_

"_I have a bad feeling."_

_His step falters at the gravity her attitude retains, but otherwise keeps up with her. "Since when do you sense disturbances in the Force?"_

"_Booth." She stops in her tracks and whirls to look up at him, eyes pleading. The sun highlights her auburn hair in the cloudless day._

_His features soften dramatically at the expression she wears, regards her sincerely. "Hey, you're the smart one," he reminds, fully prepared to hear her out. "You want me to arrest someone, or what are you thinking?"_

_A warmth blooms in her chest at the honesty behind his words–not to mention the mirthful fact he's ready to detain someone on her word alone. Feeling anxious, she takes her bottom lip between her teeth. Clear eyes wander. _

_It's a full minute before they find his again. He's concerned to see her so on edge. "I'm thinking we pushed too far and too fast."_

"_Bones, you can't just sit back and wait for something bad to happen." His eyes are soft, understanding mixed with elucidation. "Things happen, that's true. But it's not always something to fear. Do you realize what you've accomplished? How many lives you're saving? _Have_ saved?"_

"_It feels _wrong_, do you understand?" She's adamant, nervous. Her hand finds his arm, touching, emphasizing. "I can't explain what I've never experienced. Never known. All I'm certain of is this bad feeling and the notion that we're about to pay the pauper."_

"_Piper," he corrects quietly. He feels the waves of stress rolling off her form like a fog front. This isn't his department, he doesn't know how to help this time._

"_Either way," she presages, "someone will be paying something. We'll all have to answer for the consequences." _

_Her gaze falls away from him, just as everything else begins to drizzle away. Pictures fade, sounds ebb, until there is nothing. Brennan's tone is rueful–no longer able to distinguish between dream and memory. _

_Her own voice haunts from within, murmuring softly to her soul. _

"_Starting with me."_

* * *

_**November 13th, 2009**_

More than a month on the run.

He's more than sure they'll have some form of FUDE alert out on him–his name and face posted on every law enforcement hotlist known to the United States. One of their weapons gone rogue. Together, they're probably both on the deep six file.

After stealing his own issued vehicle from the Agency garage, they'd left the city, gathering supplies which are now dwindling in quantity. He'd filched the large SUV both because it was familiar, and that it was spacious enough to keep them safe at night while providing shelter.

Booth really hadn't wanted her to join him on the trip back–fully aware of the danger it poses for each of them. But of course, she'd insisted. Somewhere written, there is a sacred law that declares Seeley Booth physically incapable of denying Temperance Brennan anything. And, if he has to be honest, he doesn't entirely mind. He treasures her company and finds an easiness to her presence.

Especially now. Though the circumstances are vile, they've only grown closer.

Early on in their renegade declarations, he'd suggested that maybe she dye her hair, even though the thought of never seeing her true shade again had upset him. She'd only offered an absent nod, looking more than a little distracted.

They drive now in silence, toward the nation's capital which doesn't appear so welcoming as times before.

It's no longer Home.

Booth tries to consign away the less optimistic thoughts and focuses instead on the road, tightening his grip on the wheel. He can feel her upset. And not for the reasons one might think. They're both scared, both tired. But he knows the reason she grieves most is because she's had to leave her family. Both by blood, and chosen. The very act she's abhorred her entire life, she'd been forced to carry out. He knows it kills her.

When Brennan speaks for the first time in twenty minutes, he's a little surprised.

"Won't they recognize your plate?" The question is calm. A filler to the silence.

He glances briefly at her before turning his eyes back to the road. "They're probably still looking for us in the city," he agrees. "I'll park the truck near the outskirts, somewhere out of sight. We'll go on foot from there." Hopefully the law enforcement agencies have more pressing matters than two fugitive partners. Booth knows someone will recognize them, especially if every effort is being made to hunt them down. He's used to this. But not her.

He hates the thought of people hounding her, tracking her. With luck on her side, though, she has him. He knows just how to counter each of their every move. They've trained him for this, now he's using it against them.

Something less familiar is the dark raven tresses that substitute for natural auburn. It makes her clear and brilliant eyes stand out even more–two turquoise stars shining past the pale and the black. He's still not used to it.

Adjusting the baseball cap on his head, he once again directs his gaze to the road through the darkly tinted shades he wears. It's becoming somewhat difficult to see clearly, given that the sun is low in the sky and it's late into the evening.

They could seek supplies in another city, but he wants to check up on Parker. Rebecca will most likely call the authorities, but he plans to be gone well before they can arrive.

He's still hoping she'll surprise him and simply allow him the favor of seeing his son, but in the back of his mind, doubt keeps him cynical.

He misses his boy.

He's certain Brennan doesn't see those tears at night. But she looks at him now. Knows what he's thinking.

He's about to question his partner on whether or not he can talk her out of making this little side trip with him. That's when the ripple of unease slowly begins to creep over him. Brow furrowing, Booth is quietly on alert.

_Where's all the traffic?_

It isn't long before his companion realizes the same. She turns to him, eyes questioning. While there are indeed vehicles on the street, whichever ones aren't parked at the curb are left deserted in the middle of the double lane. No pedestrians pave the walkways.

The nation's capital is empty, _empty_, as far as the eye can see.

Booth has slowed the Tahoe to no more than a crawl as he and Brennan take in the deserted city with looks of eerie astonishment. "What the hell…?"

Plastic biohazard sheets hang from towering apartment buildings like loose cobwebs. They billow lazily in the gentle wind. Every diner or downtown dealership store exhibits at least one shattered window, and chairs and products are thrown askew and left without care. Caution tape strews just about every small house they pass, torn and flapping. A child's bike lay battered, abandoned, in the middle of the street.

DC is a wasteland.

Booth snaps out of his reverie first when he feels her small hand close over his own. She gazes out her window at the city that lay in ruin with wide eyes. Her expression is traumatic. Moisture slowly wells at their corners.

"Booth," she whispers, unable to look away from the devastation.

The word is swallowed by the silence.

_What_ has happened?

He feels his chest tighten with dread, but returns the hold retained on his hand. Slowly, he removes the sunglasses with his other, staring out in disbelief. Surprise flashes first, like a burst of light, but it's quickly replaced by something else.

He's about to break the unsettling silence, but she plows ahead, voice trembling. Desperate.

It's not an order, but a plea.

"Take me to the lab."

* * *

"Bones, slow down!"

Booth, after parking the truck outside the Jeffersonian, retrieves the Beretta from his shoulder holster before jumping out of the vehicle. A bad feeling slowly begins to claw its way around his core, but Brennan is already dashing up the way. Hair streaming behind her in a dark ribbon. Breaths gasping in desperate sprint.

The sky is darkening. Clouds roll in with the thunder. Not rain, not snow, but a mixture of the two. He barely registers the drops of icy precipitation on his face and jacket in pursuit of her.

Heart pounding. Agony building, she fights with each stride against the likely outcome.

Inside, there are shadows. Pale reflections of a past way of life. The illumination the setting sun provides slowly gives way to the cerulean glow of the moon. The shadows of the lab, however, paint a perfectly desolate portrait.

Examination tables lie overturned and forgotten. Computer screens are blank and unresponsive. Several fluorescent lighting fixtures hang by only one chain, swaying brokenly in the still air. The entire scene that lies before her is equivalent to a strong, physical blow.

The empty laboratory feels as if it's spinning, her world crashing down around her. She has not known pain. She has known a family's absence. A father's abandonment and trial. She's known the loss of friendship. She's known her partner's blood, staining her clothing and hands as he lies dying in her arms. She has known copious amounts of fear. But nothing like this.

Nothing like a Home destroyed.

It's new, different. A new kind of pain.

Slowly, tears spill down her skin over gaping shock. She exhales once, and she's not sure she can complete the cycle. Finally, she registers his gentle hand on her shoulder, forcing the air into her lungs.

"Temperance." He speaks softly, so quiet and low, trying to convey his deep sympathy in the single spoken word. He hurts for her.

"They're gone," she whispers. Her head barely shakes around the overt denial. "Everyone is gone…"

Her voice alone betrays the edge she feels herself hanging on.

Where is her family?

He reaches out to her, feeling himself being pulled in by her common deductive reasoning. There has to be an explanation.

Where _is_ everyone?

He's about to reply when a long distant clatter sounds from the exterior of the building. Both partners turn, alert, toward the disturbance past the entrance doors. Outside, the light shower of freezing rain has grown heavier.

Through the din of calming rain, another sound entirely reaches their ears. A barely discernable echo, but present nonetheless.

Cautiously, he begins to move for the doors with Brennan following closely at his side. "Stay behind me." Quietly. Distractedly. His stare is fixed on the doors. Heart thumps louder, gut on fire. Warning him. It's never wrong, not when it matters most.

The unfamiliar and foreign sound gives him a chill that he can't explain. He feels Brennan's arm brush against his, and knows it will do no good to repeat himself.

The sound grows a little louder, but the added volume only makes it stranger than before.

"What is that?" She speaks quietly into the air, eyes shifting around with unease.

He steps slowly to the solid, polycarbonate doors of the lab, looking out into the night through the rain. All that greets him is vast abyss and the sight of his Tahoe, parked directly across from where they stand indoors. Even the shadows are still.

Still, he waits. His sniper's patience is almost infinite, and his trained senses–finely honed–are stretched to their maximum ability. But again, they are met only by the barren night. His brow knits in deep concentration, a frown marring his expression. Whatever it is, he doesn't like it. He's about to voice this supposition to his companion when the chance never comes.

A human-sized mass suddenly collides against the solid door plate with a thundering slam, making the clear barrier shudder.

"Shit!" He draws his handgun again, aiming for the threat and immediately putting himself between the doors and Brennan, who had screamed behind him.

Behind the glass, two feral gray eyes glare with harmful intent. What was assumingly once a man had thrown itself into the barrier, leaving a smear of blood behind.

Its flesh is sickly dyed and nearly transparent, blue veins visible underneath. Tattered clothes hang haphazardly off a rail-thin body and its feet are bare. Further back, more shadows begin to fade out of the fog and slowly make their way toward the building.

The thing takes a step back, opening its maw and emitting a loud, animalistic scream, saliva dripping as it snaps its jaws at the pair inside.

It wants in.


	7. These Stained Hands of Mine

**Author's Note: Carry on! **

**Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile! **

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX**  
THESE STAINED HANDS OF MINE

*

_I've woken now to find myself in the shadows of all I have created  
Crawling through this world as disease flows through my veins  
I'm longing to be lost in you, away from this place I have made  
Won't you take me away from me?_

_I loathe all I've become, I despise all that I've done_

-Evanescence-

* * *

"What the hell were those things?" Panic makes his voice raise an extra octave.

He's made sure she's safely inside before closing off the entrance, sealing every locking mechanism on the wall-sized door accessible. Shadows swallow up the light. It's dark, all too dark. They don't dare seek the light, no matter how promising. Holed up, it's safer here.

Now his heart pounds loudly against his ribs, at least giving him something else to hear besides that god-awful wailing coming from the other side of the safe room. They're in the basement, locked away in some makeshift bomb shelter the Jeffersonian had built in case of emergency. He's glad for once of his hard-earned tax money funding this multi-million dollar establishment.

His hands shake. An uneasy step back, and he's gaping at the nearly indestructible alloy that separates he and his partner from whatever the hell is on the other side of that door. He's the one who believes in God, angels, and demons. And yet his mind races frantically, struggling to process just what exactly had transpired above.

She is the rational one. He seeks her eyes for explanation. Answers. Dear Lord, he needs answers.

Needles in her flesh. Petrified shock. Despite the glaring impossibility of what had so fiercely encountered them moments ago, she knows exactly what has happened.

She _knows_.

Somehow, the knowledge emerges from the very darkest corners of her mind. It's an unsettling experience. Dark, hooded. Just like the confines of the space that holds them.

"Bones…"

Booth backpedals until he's at her side, and as far away from the door as possible.

"KV," she whispers. Unable to tear her eyes away from the steel. Unable to block out the piercing shrieks carrying through from the reverse region. Her lips part, bright eyes glistening in the absent light.

"What?" He turns to her, forcing out the disturbing wails that attack their eardrums and send wave after wave of shudders down his spine. Sickening, haunting. Nothing should ever be granted to make such a sound.

When she doesn't acknowledge him–only stares helplessly at the door, shaking her head–he takes her by the shoulders and forces her to meet his eyes. Shaken, beautifully vulnerable and stubborn at the same time.

"Talk to me, Bones," he commands, making an effort to pull the scientist out of her haunted spell. "What's happening?"

She shivers under the contact. Doesn't make a sound. But he can clearly see the evidence of tears in her eyes, born purely of inner discord. These are tears of guilt. He knows them well.

Several times she opens her mouth to speak, but it takes until the fourth attempt for any words to follow. "KV," she repeats. "The contagion. Those who became infected… the virus must have evolved. Mutated."

Mutated. This word is better, more horrific than the former. Evolving is what human beings do to adapt, grow. Form bonds. This isn't evolution. It's something else. Something far, far worse.

She's fast losing the cool collectiveness that so often surrounds her. Her bottom lip quavers. He can feel her fingers tightening their grip on his jacket. Locking coils, but he doesn't register the pain when they curl against his skin.

"Booth," she whispers tearfully, staring up at him with begging eyes. Panic washes over her quicker than he can soothe her.

His palms, almost magnetized, seek out her face. Holds her gaze steady on his. _Focus_, his eyes tell her. _Focus on me_. "Okay, okay. It's alright, Bones. Calm down." He urges her peace in as level a voice he can amass. He himself doesn't believe what he's telling her. "I need you to breathe. Take a breath, it's going to fine."

He's shaking. Even as he holds her, he feels his own fear bubbling to the surface. He needs her back, so that he cannot be afraid.

"Booth, it's my fault. It's my fault… I did this…" She continues to reiterate her blame, clinging to him. Her grip is steel, laced with shock and adrenaline.

Ignoring the sounds of turmoil, he brings his arms around her and turns them away from the door, whispering consoling words into her hair. She burrows closer, hiding from the monstrous consequences of her own creation. He knows she's crying, but feeling the tears soaking through the collar of his shirt makes it so much worse. Pity and grief well up inside of him. None of this is right. None of it's fair.

He's thought he'd learned that lesson a long time ago. Knowing the world is impartial and unfeeling. Yet it feels like he's learning it all over again. His heart splinters with hers, and he closes his eyes and wills the world to stop for just a moment.

He wants time to falter. To slow just long enough for him to get a grip and for her to let herself go. It's evident he needs to be the bulwark again, no matter the damage he feels inside. She needs a rock within the storm.

It's a relief to be spared the shrieking of those infected, though he isn't comforted by the fact that it's the sound of his partner's tears which drown them out.

* * *

_**July 4th, 2009**_

"_Bones, what's going on? I've been trying to reach you on the phone–I just keep getting voicemail!" He hops out of the truck, jogging over to his partner, who's leaving her apartment complex, face writ with concern. Sirens wail in the distance, and several humvees roar past. He notices her two small duffle bags immediately. _"_Are you going somewhere?" _

"_Hopefully not for long." Her assurance is quick. Fabricated. There's a hidden desperation veiled underneath those shining blue eyes of hers that he can't comprehend. _

"_But it's the Fourth of July. You were supposed to stay with me and Parker–"_

"_Booth, I'm sorry," she tells him. The sincere remorse behind her tone is genuine. "Something's come up. I have to take care of it." In the search for her car, she is left wanting. Cursing, she recalls she's left it at the Jeffersonian. "Can you drive me to the lab? Please, Booth," she presses at his hesitant look._

_At the trace of deep-rooted concern that flashes across her eyes, he gives a brusque nod toward his vehicle. "Get in." _

_Inside, she begins to spout out facts and figures he can't dream of understanding. He allows her to get it out of her system, nonetheless. After another minute or so, she drops the bomb._

"_One of the hosts' reaction to the inoculation was catastrophic. They've been trying to stabilize the host for several hours. Last I was informed, the patient was being pulled out of cardiac arrest."_

_He swears under his breath, glancing away from the road to look at her. A worried frown has taken permanent abode at her brow, and she looks out anxiously at the passing buildings. "Bones?" _

_She doesn't look away from the city. _

"_It's starting."_

* * *

He needs her to be calm.

Specific training benefits him in times of panic, and serves to keep his head level. But nothing could've prepared him for what he's just witnessed outside the lab. He takes a deliberate breath, speaking slowly. "Bones, I need to know if we're safe in here. I need Dr. Brennan now." Her hysteria has begun to fade, if only a little, at his low and reassuring voice. She remains unspoken. "Is that door going to hold? Can they get in?"

Time stretches. He's about to try again when he feels her head shake against him.

"Yes," she tells him quietly. "We should be safe, I mean. The velocity and weight necessary in order to compromise that door is greater than that of the Gormogon vault."

"That's all I needed to hear." He keeps his arms close around her. When her breathing refuses to steady itself, he places a single splayed hand on the center of her back. "Now, focus on gaining control. You feel me, Bones – breathe with me."

Her face buries against him, does as he asks. Concentrates on decelerating her respiration. As his chest slowly expands with each deep breath, she allows hers to do the same. She's too shaken to feel embarrassment that he needs to coddle her.

Seeing her lose severe control like that had scared him. Polar opposites: she is textbook and rational, he is street smarts and groundless. Switching roles to such a degree is not something he's ready to do again.

This place in his arms is familiar. Slowly, the horror leaches from her. A calm settles within. This is better. She knows this.

When at last she arrives at a steady enough composure, he smoothes his hand over her arm. "Listen to me, this is _not_ your fault." His tone brooks no argument, but such a thing has never heeded her before.

The words make her tense, and she pulls away to look at him. Disbelieving. "It is. It _is_, Booth." When he makes to argue, she cuts him off.

He doesn't know. He can't know. After the initial trials on herself, she'd indeed been fine. But not quite so long after, she'd begun to notice a disparity. A trivial sensation–but present, nonetheless. She had started to feel something explicitly diverse in her system. Something developing. And while she'd been left without symptoms or negative side effects, the transformation was no less authentic.

It was a gut feeling.

A sixth sense she hadn't begun to possess until meeting the man beside her.

"It was _my_ lack of intervention, Booth. I knew there were flaws." The formula–the cure–it wasn't perfected. But she'd been given an insistent deadline. She'd almost refused them entirely. Her voice rises in time with her emotions. "It was _my_ silence that caused this."

Maybe, in the end, she hadn't done it. But she hadn't stopped it, either.

She is the mother to this child of doom. This newborn plague.

He doesn't interrupt her. A part of him understands she needs to say these things. In her mind, she's made a mistake. A devastating one, at that. He's aware that if he disallows her to voice the blame upon herself, she'll never be able to move on.

Never be able to forgive herself.

So, he waits. He's patient with her. Watches her with those eyes of his. Those dark, reassuring pools that offer her everything she's ever needed.

"Don't mess with nature, right?" She breathes a humorless laugh. "On the scarce occasion I agree with your specific form of mindset, and I… I flinch." Her actions reflect her words. Eyes hold a sad sort of blue in the shadows of the safe house. "I flinched, Booth."

She turns away from him, ashamed. Hugs herself tightly. The air is quiet and still. He doesn't speak, doesn't need to. Her remorse fills the void. Weighs heavily on the atmosphere. He feels her sorrow. It's so thick and palpable he can almost reach out and grasp it. Even now, their breathing remains in sync. A single suffering mass.

A guilty, sad look flickers through her eyes when she glances at him. Almost afraid of his response.

"I was going to withdraw my findings, you know." The silence shatters against the even voice. "I was so sure and so _righteous_ about it." A stray tear is dashed away. "But it was her. That little girl who had lost all her curls. Laying there in that hospital bed, asking why the doctors couldn't save her."

Emotions choke her. She labors past, regaining the ability to speak. His breath hitches, and the bond is broken.

"Asking why she couldn't stay with her family, just a little longer. She didn't want to leave her family." A sob contorts the word. It lands too close to home. "This is all my fault."

She feels his hand weigh gently on her shoulder. "It's not."

There's a buried pain behind his words. She doesn't understand it, knows not why it's warranted.

"Booth, it doesn't matter my best intentions. All that matters is that I _failed_. I'm responsible for–"

Her voice breaks off in surprise when he seizes her shoulders and forces her to face him. "You tried to _save_ a _child_." There's firm desperation in his voice, earnest defense. Eyes drill into hers, cementing his words. "It doesn't matter the result, the outcome, or whatever the consequences were. You did everything in your power to save an innocent life."

She leans into him, absorbs what he has told her. A weight shifts in her form, the tightness in her chest lessens a fraction. For one shining moment, she thinks that _maybe_, one day, she'll be able to forgive herself. Move on. It's in faraway potential, but it's there.

A shrill yell echoes through the door. A slam. Another.

A horrifying thought crosses her mind, and suddenly the weight is back. The dread increases.

_Oh God…_

The pain is suddenly physical in her chest. "Booth, you don't think…" She struggles to force the terrifying thought away. "She didn't become one of those… those things…" It ends on barely a whisper. Her throat seizes.

He recognizes her fear. Feels it now just as keenly. "Some only died," he softly reminds. Speaks quickly to arrest the alarm written plainly across the pale face before him. But it's a long shot. A white lie. It's the smallest comfort he can offer her. Sadly, it was a rare case a host would simply die from the infection…

Without warning, Brennan feels his grip on her tighten. Not in a painful manner, but instead an unintentional result borne purely of staggered reaction. She feels her breath catch, dawning realization striking her.

Though hidden in the shadows, his face is a tense, unreadable mask. His entire frame has gone rigid. She tries to meet his eyes, but they are steeled against her. She _knows_ why he is so suddenly engulfed by dread before he even speaks it.

This is a parent's fear.

"Would Parker get sick?"

His voice is flat and thick. He tries to play it off as callous, but the weakness, the _panic_, of it breaks her. Instantly, she forgets her own pain and faces him with determined assurance. Taking him by the arms, she meets his stare with directness. "_No_, Booth."

Her promise is firm. And if her word isn't enough, she'll give him facts.

"The male parent is responsible for genetic immunities such as these. I'm certain that right now, he's safe with Rebecca."

"What are the chances?"

Insistence. Pleading. Her words fill him with cautious hope.

In the end, hope is really fear. But now, he needs it. Something real to cling to. He needs her to lie, if she must.

"Rebecca is very resourceful, Booth. And with Brent looking after the two of them…" At his deep expression of concern, she stops him before he can interrupt. "He's your _son_." Her eyes give him every truth she possesses. "He's safe."

It's a white lie.

* * *

_Give me strength to face the truth  
__The doubt within my soul  
__I believed it would justify the means  
__The veil of my dreams deceived all I have seen  
__Forgive me my sins_

_Give me strength to face the wrong I've done  
__Now that I know the darkest side of me_

-Truth Beneath the Rose-


	8. The Lost Time Unraveled

**Author's Note: So I've finally finished this mad puppy! I'm pretty stoked and keyed up, now. This means that updates should be coming every Mon, Wed, and Fri. Any delay would be caused by my being out of town or not being able to find proper bases for my tag manips that I post on livejournal. **

**Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile! **

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVEN  
**THE LOST TIME UNRAVELED

*

_Everything will slip away, shattered pieces will remain  
When memories fade into emptiness  
Only time will tell its tale, if it has all been in vain_

-Within Temptation-

* * *

_**Washington DC  
**__**July 19th, 2009  
**__**9:37 pm**_

_Sirens blare and fill the DC streets with panic. Soldiers inundate the area, weapons held fixed to their chests. Those unequipped with arsenal instead possess handheld optical scanners. Behind the roadblock, the crowd is swept._

_Emergency lockdown._

_Twin helicopters roar overhead._

_Seeley Booth braves the storm. Observes the entire unfolding scene with an anxious frown. Unable to pass through, he locks the gear into place and kills the engine, climbing out of the vehicle. Moving around back, he pulls open the backseat door and collects the small seven-year-old into his arms. A second door slams._

"_We have to get to the Jeffersonian," Brennan speaks urgently from the opposing end of the truck. Keeps with his pace. "It will be safer there–for him." _

_The boy is tired. It's late. Parker tightens his small arms around his father's neck, eyes now alert and flickering about nervously. Booth shifts him a little higher and takes in the situation. Despite the season, the night air is chilling._

"_After I'm inside, you should take him and leave the city as soon as possible."_

_His eyes fly to her as they maintain a hurried stride. Pulse quickens. "Jesus, Bones–did it jump?" he realizes, alarmed. "Is it airborne?"_

_The silence that meets the question and the grave look in her eyes is enough. Swearing an oath under his breath, he begins to push his way with Parker and his partner through the teeming crowd. _

"_It may not have. If there's anything, we'll find it. And hopefully reverse the spread."_

"_I'm not leaving this city without you. You're coming with."_

"_Where are we going?" the child wants to know, voice small._

"_I have to fix this, Booth." She's serious. At times, her pride is ill-placed. But she maintains her duty. "I can't leave. This is ground zero. This is my site."_

_Around them, soldiers group, leading them through the crowd with stern, clipped tones. The collective fear amongst them all is flagrant. _

"_Dad, they have guns!" Worry is etched on Parker's face. _

"_It's okay, bub. They're in the army like Daddy was." The assurance is quick as he faces his partner, expression unyielding. Eyes dark and seizing, cementing his vow. "I'm not leaving you, Temperance."_

_Within the throng, raised voices and commands add to the din. "Please, go back to your homes!"_

_Screams of fear, pain, and indignation punctuate frantic shouting. Wailing car alarms and breaking windows provide a strident doomsday chorus. Another DC resident, eager to get through, approaches the barrier. A soldier raises the device, quickly scanning the man's retina. A blinking green indicator flashes across the screen. "You're clear! Move ahead!"_

_This is followed by many similar approvals. And arbitrarily hindered by several "No good's!"_

_The tainted are detained. _

_Further back behind the holding gate, a woman pleads with several soldiers. Child in her arms. "I'm not infected! I'm not infected!" Desperate supplication, face contorted in suffering grief. As she weeps, bleeding tears spill down her ashen skin. Gray eyes hold no color. "Please, take my baby!" _

_Booth forces himself to look away, stomach knotting. They come before a blockade of soldiers, one of whom quickly scans him. _

"_Clear!"_

"_Look, look," he instructs his son, pointing at the device. Parker obliges and is scanned amidst the rush._

"_Clear!"_

_Another soldier brings his scanner to Brennan. A red flash fills the screen. It's pursued by a warning shrill._

"_No good! Send her back!"_

_Steel grips close around her arms and begin to haul her away. Inadvertently, she panics. She's being taken from him. "Booth!" _

_He hears her cry._

"_No!" Parker twists in his father's arms. "Dad, they're taking Bones!" _

_His heart slams into his throat. Spinning around, he shoves his way back through the mass. _Get to her. Reach her! "_Whoa, hey! Hey! Get your hands off her!" His voice is commanding. "Let her go!"_

_A soldier blocks his way. "Sir, move along!" _

"_Stand down!" he shouts back. Several of the soldiers wane in their stoic fronts at the severe and challenging tone his voice demands. They can recognize it. _"_Stand down!" When their protests quiet, his voice is low and dark. They _will_ let her go. "I'm Master Sergeant Seeley Booth, seventy-fifth regiment of the US Army Rangers, currently stationed SAC with the FBI. And I am ordering you to scan her again." _

_His words meet every mark with lethal precision–just like his aim. They bite with cold ferocity and will not be disobeyed. Are issued with chilling calm._

_The hold on her arms remains tight. She tries not to be afraid. Some of the troop recruits exchange hesitant glances, but keep their mouths shut. Air is thick with tension._

"_Scan her again!" _

_He'd use his gun if it isn't for the child in his arms. Even so… ten seconds from now, if his partner's not at his side, he'll take the boy safely home and return with more than one firearm in hand._

_For one single moment, the crowd seems to silence at the brutal timbre of his voice. _

_At last, a soldier comes forward and catches the scanner from one of his fellow comrades. It levels with Brennan's eye line. Upon the reading, the green light blinks. _

"_It's clear." Quiet assertion. "Move on through."_

_Quelling the sigh of relief, he waits until Brennan is beside him again and hooks his free arm around her. Pulls her close, continues on. "Why'd it turn green?" His expression is grim, voice too, but otherwise inexpressive. He doesn't look at her with the question. His only focus is on finding them each out of the encompassing cesspool. People stare at them–they've gained attention–but he pushes past. Breath trembles past his lips._

_She mirrors his expression. Internally, though, her heart and mind are racing. "I have the contagion in my system. However, it does me no harm and therefore is not easily traced. In myself, KV is dormant." Gritty resolve is broken when her eyes seek his. "Why? Did you think it was only a glitch?" _

_Her partner's jaw is set. _

"_I thought it was going to get a lot more physical," he admits, thankful that it hadn't when he feels Parker curl in tighter against him. He sweeps a doubtful glance over the mass out of the corner of his eye. "And they do glitch."_

"_What?" She looks at him, startled. _

"_I've seen those scanners in action before this." His explanation is dark as they maneuver amongst the flurrying mob. "They glitch."_

"_What?" she repeats, regarding him with a horrified expression. "That's severely unethical! You're saying that over half of these people they intend to quarantine could be free of the infection?" _

"_God bless America, right Bones?" he mutters bitterly, leading her through the crowd with his son safely in his arms. _

* * *

_**November 14th, 2009**_

_She remembers breaking out of the safe room. Terrified of what might be waiting on the other side. They're granted desolate respite–they're alone. That this is good or bad is uncertain. _

_He's fast. She can't stop him from breaking ahead, but follows as he runs for downtown. He's never needed to run faster._

_Lungs burn as he tries to make them work more than they want to. His legs throb in rhythm with the pounding of his heart that's trapped in his ears. He's on fire, but ice coats his spine and pierces his chest. _

_He runs for Rebecca's house, yelling his son's name. She can barely keep up with him. The keys to a Prius car are left in the ignition. It isn't stealing. She follows him. He won't join her. _

_When he reaches the home, his legs are liquid. His breath is spent. _

_He collapses on the front steps, knees meeting stone. Gasps in exhaustion, fatigue solidifying every muscle. He bows over the steps, hand pressed weakly against the door, fingers curling around the caution tape. _

_She exits the vehicle, rushes to him with unbridled sympathy weighing on her heart. Thoughts rush in vicious tandem. _

_She holds him, mourns with him. _

* * *

_  
**August 14th, 2010**_

The bright, midday sun beats down on DC without a single cloud to hamper its shine. Parked vehicles sit cluttered and often randomly amongst the streets, closest to the curbs. Other than the abandoned automobiles, the streets lie bare with tufts of grass and weeds sprout from the crevices. Biohazard sheets still hang in a more dilapidated fashion from large apartment complexes and random homes. The hospital is demolished entirely.

The shrubs and vines surrounding the White House twist well up the fortification and nearly to the crown. A variety of common fish-life mosey their way through the Reflecting Pool in the Constitution Gardens.

Birds gather jovially in the sidewalks and park benches, fluttering and singing praise. Other various animal-life remaining comfortably out of sight add their own calls. Besides this and the whisper of the wind twisting through the maze of downtown, the nation's capital is blanketed in placid silence.

Or, it had been.

Slowly fading from the natural quiet, a low rumbling disrupts the air. As it grows near to the drove of birds, they calmly fly off and take residence instead on several overhanging awnings.

Horsepower roars to life. A 2008 Mustang Bullet GT rockets past the conversing bird clan. They chirp their grievances at being so rudely disturbed, dignity suffered, but almost immediately forget the intrusion and go back to singing and scavenging for food.

The cherry red gleams brilliantly under the baking sun. Nearly mirrors back its rays with the pair of thick white pinstripes that run down the center of the hood and over the roof.

The homemade back license plate reads: COCKY.

The driver guns the engine, shifting gears as the sports car tears around the corner, tires screaming merrily. Speeds below a small pass of scaffolding, rumpling the overhanging tarps as it zooms through. A flock of birds careless enough to loiter in the middle of the street squawk indignantly and barely escape with their lives and feathers intact as they make for the sky.

Seeley Booth grips the steering wheel carelessly with one hand, shifting the weight of his weapon across his lap with the other.

A modification of the Remington M-24 Sniper. Fully automatic. It sports a sawed off barrel–a full three inches taken away–and a healthy-sized tactical prismatic scope. The illuminated scope is also modified to his liking, bearing a Gen 3 night vision quality and attachable light source that won't be needed today.

The gun is large, and it's beautiful. He's still trying to think of an appropriate name for it.

_Bessie_ is too cliché and adds age to the sleek weapon. _Jackie_ is currently winning him over, but is in stiff competition with _Sally_ and _Gretta_. _Athena_ is exotic, and signifies great skill for which the firearm is used. Obviously, he hadn't come up with that title himself, but its symbolic grace is growing on him.

Unbidden, a static hum cuts through the moment he's sharing with his stallion and his weapon and the bright, sunny day that entreats him. Glancing down at the passenger seat beside him, his brown eyes eventually rest on the walkie-talkie residing there. A pleased smirk tugs at his lips. Scooping it up with one hand, he brings it to his mouth with a flourish.

"Read you, Super-Squint," he greets cheerily. "Over."

"_I thought we agreed I was to be Tango-Bravo_," comes the concise reply.

"What comical purpose could that possibly serve?"

"_It would be corresponding with the accurate NATO radio telephony code of my first and last initials_."

"There's that," he concedes dryly. "But it just rings boring. Lacks color. I could switch it up, if it'd make you feel better. What about Brainy-Smurf, or Rockin-Roxie, or… Wonder-Wanda? Whiskey-Whiskey, how's that sound?" Even though she isn't in his direct presence, he unleashes a full charm smile at the walkie.

"_I suppose I could always refer to you as Bob while online_."

Booth chuckles. He turns another corner while scanning the area expertly with his well-trained eyes. "Very weak, Bones."

"_Decidedly. Should I just stick to Sierra-Bravo_?"

A grimace. "Way too girly. What about Foxtrot-Bravo-Eyecandy? That one was catchy." At her amused huff, he goes on. "Alpha-Ranger was probably less provocative, though."

"_Alpha-Ranger it is_."

"Glad that's settled."

"_I'm giving in to you way too much_."

"And I'm really enjoying it. So, you looking for a ride, or what? Pick you up at the lab?"

"_Yes, please_."

Booth suddenly swears, jerking the wheel as a spooked deer leaps in front of the hood. The car fishtails and takes out a few lane dividers. This one is soon followed by the rest of its herd. Their bleats and calls fill the small interior of the car. The ground trembles under their stampeding hooves.

"_Are you hunting_?" comes the sudden demand, voice pitched higher than usual.

"Maybe..."

He spins the wheel around and speeds after the herd, trying to maintain his verbal avoidance with limited success, thanks to his persistent cohort.

"_You promised next time you would take me_."

She sounds miffed.

"I did! And… I will. It was just that, well, I wasn't busy and you were busy and I had the shooter just sitting here, and, you know…" Going off in a pathetic stammer, he tries to multitask between bickering and focusing on the road.

_They should make a bumper sticker, _he muses distractedly. Ignores the irony. Nowadays, there just isn't a whole lot of "they" to go around. Nevertheless, he can sense her furtive grin, even if his eyes can't.

"_Pick me up in twenty minutes_."

Booth tries to hide his own, but the corners of his mouth just aren't obeying. Revving up the v8 engine to its limit and giving full chase to the scattering wildlife, he pours on the charm. "Just give me ten."

She laughs at his shameless boast.

As the Mustang thunders through a park walkway, dodging statues and gates, he at last is able to pull up alongside several sprinting stags. Securing the walkie between his shoulder and jaw, he raises the rifle and takes aim outside the window. Tries to level the barrel.

He stifles another curse as he passes a subway ramp and most of his targets disappear under the street.

"_Diner_?" she confirms, a positive mood claiming her once again.

"BYO grub," he agrees through a boyish smile. The engine of the sports car and her voice fills his senses.

"_I don't know what that means_."

He laughs easily. "No worries. Got you covered."

"_See you in ten, Booth_." She issues him a pleasant adieu, about to disconnect.

"Say it, Bones." He grins cheekily into the walkie. Knows immediately she's rolling her eyes at him through the communication device. If he were in her presence, he would no doubt be subject to her endearing "pinchy-face."

His favorite of her pouts.

"_Over_."

* * *

_It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything._

-Tyler Durden-


	9. This Reality We've Forged

****

**Author's Note: Really excited now that I'm able to dish out these updates so quickly! **

**Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile! **

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHT**  
THIS REALITY WE'VE FORGED

*

_All things my feet thought to be firm are falling with urgency  
Tearing back my false sense of security  
But the sweetness in my ears  
Safe in your arms speak the words I love to hear  
All things I thought I used to know are falling down again  
Our disillusionment is how we grow  
Some say things change, nothing stays the same  
In a world of inconsistency, when everything's a lie_

_But you have been more faithful that the morning sun  
More faithful than knowing the night will come _

-More Faithful-

* * *

She tilts her head carefully to the side, observing the cylindrical test tube with consummate proficiency. Lashes flutter curiously at the encouraging results that churn within. Stationed on the familiar platform that is the centerpiece of the once illustrious Jeffersonian Institute, the remainder of the structure is abnormally silent. Though she's fond of the quiet working space, it's taken her months to get used to. Even now, she often misses the calming din.

These days, there's no such thing as white noise.

For now the renowned establishment is reduced to a merely derelict mausoleum. Each battered piece reflects a broken memory. Most of the equipment and lighting have been restored. With just the two of them, though, it's taken a great deal of time and effort. Far overhead, there's a large tarp covering a damaged skylight.

She hides a smile at the memory of convincing him to clamber up the roof to position it there. She can still hear colorful protests in the back of her mind, his whining that he held no desire to become the Lab's next wind-chime. Or the latest New Age warrior she could squint at after he fell to his doom.

Lord knew that going cold turkey from uncovered remains has left her a little skittish and on the ornery side.

Moving to a nearby microscope, Brennan devotes her full attention on the sample in the course of be tested. While gazing through the small eyepiece, her nimble fingers slowly adjust and focus the power.

Blue eyes sparkle at the sight. Lashes brush at magnified glass.

In the process of a hopeful breakthrough, it takes another several seconds for her to register the distant and familiar rumble of a certain stallion. Pulling away, she casts a glance at her wristwatch. A smirk tugs at the corners of her mouth.

He's late.

That either means he's used that added time to finish up his hounding of DC's wildlife, or... he's lost his quarry.

Knowing he'll probably be in one of his moods if it's the latter of the two, she gathers up her findings quickly to take home. Placing the stoppered test formulas in their compact cooler, she sheds her lab coat and makes for the exit.

Once outside, she recognizes the bright red bulk pulling into the now attainable parking lot going at an estimated speed of fifty-seven miles an hour. She watches as he spins the wheel, triggering the Mustang to swing full around before coming to a screeching halt just a short jaunt away.

Eyebrows raise. He regards her cheekily from behind the open window, sunglasses obscuring his smiling eyes.

"Very impressive."

"The ride or the maneuver?" An arrogant brow arches. The dimples appear.

"Both," she grants. An emerging smile makes her lips twitch. "Where's the truck?"

"At the house." The cheerfulness fades. "You know, I really wish you had a car nearby incase..."

"Relax, Alpha-Ranger." Mirth dances across her face. Teasing, taunting. "I have a fully-functional Sudan waiting for me in the structure. I just wanted to ride with you."

His face brightens significantly. "Oh." Sits a little straighter. "Well, then." He gestures chivalrously to the passenger seat, his comrade laughing appreciatively at his antics. Moving around the frontend, she pulls open the door and takes a seat in the still running vehicle. Booth inclines his head at the backseat and happily points out each separate cuisine. "We have: sandwiches, corn chips, egg rolls... a tasty artificial salad for you, and a hearty frozen pie for me. Between the months old Gatorade with the don't-even-think-about-it expiration date and the sparkling fresh bottled water... what did you have in mind?"

"Water for me." Her chin juts out, punctuating the remark.

He tosses her a narrow-eyed smirk and shifts out of park before driving off towards their favorite diner. "Thought so."

Concurrently, though drowned out mostly by the rev of the sports car, both occupants' wristwatches give off a reporting bleep, signifying the time: 2:25 pm.

Neither speaks a word to acknowledge the frequent occurrence, but the effect is immediate. A dull twinge starts to pulsate in each their chests. His grip on the steering wheel unconsciously constricts, knuckles paling in the afternoon sun. A muscle tightens in his jaw.

She stares out the window, something internal producing the troubled crease that appears between her brows. Quickly, in need of an escape, she turns to him. "After we eat, take me hunting."

At her sudden contention, he glances her way. Amusement shapes his features, surpassing the shadowy glower that previously marred his face. He chuckles approvingly. "You got it." Resting an arm comfortably over the back of her seat, he goes on. "I lost them near the Station, but if we head down past K Street, we may see something."

A silent understanding.

She nods her appreciation, rotating in exchange around to absorb the passing backdrop. "I really want to shoot something."

A bark of laughter from the man behind the wheel.

Conversing wildlife pause in their humble routines to behold the red blur speeding past them. They're more than accustomed by now to their rowdy neighbors.

* * *

A wholly satisfied grin slides across her face as Booth tosses off the Springfield M-21 Tactical rifle.

Over the past year, her hair color has returned to its original state, and the healthy auburn shines in the late afternoon sun. "Finally get my own gun."

He's parked the car just shy of the lavish green gate blocking their path. "Only because there's no one around to shoot," he returns good-naturedly, retrieving his own weapon from the vehicle.

She doesn't neglect the opportunity to stick her tongue out at him. He delights in the juvenile comeback, bouncing ahead of her excitedly. Together, they hop the wall and begin their trek through the waist-level grass of the park they need to cross.

"You're hot."

"Thanks, Bones."

"What? No, I meant-" She rolls her eyes from behind him as they edge slowly through the overgrowth, rifles held in casual security. Curiosity outweighing annoyance at his intriguingly clad state, she elaborates. "You're wearing nothing but black. I only assumed you'd get overheated in that outfit." Her own attire, since ridding herself of the blue lab coat, consists of jeans and a khaki-hued shirt rolled up at the sleeves. Despite the slightly more than comfortable heat, her hair is let down, sliding over her shoulders and catching the sun with warming tones.

Booth spares a glance at her over his shoulder, brow scrunched. Opens his mouth to speak, then sets his jaw slightly askew out of sheer puzzlement. "Outfit? This is just what I'm wearing." She recognizes his slightly defensive expression and endeavors not to point it out.

Instead, she shrugs noncommittally. "I thought it was a look."

"I just gave you a gun finally, and now you're mocking me." The pitiful adolescent dog expression is stamped firmly onto his face--one she's become decisively familiar with. He's far too easy to provoke.

"If it's of any welcome consolation, I did say you were hot."

It isn't a lie.

Shooting her another indignant look ranging between defeat and amusement, he faces back around and she's finally able to relax the straining muscles in her face. She cancels the urge to mention the oddity of using a temperature classification to describe one's attractiveness.

The smile blooms. She ducks her head to shadow it.

Without warning, he halts abruptly. A powerful arm stretches across her shoulder, holding her back.

"What?" She peers eagerly from behind him, hoping to glimpse the cause behind his stalling. Quietly, he backtracks until he's beside her. Leans in and points with his free hand just past her nose. A moment later, she catches the flicker of a tail and her eyes light with excitement. "Can I shoot it?"

Wincing inwardly, he painfully recalls what had happened the last time she'd asked him that very same question. He feels a familiar twinge in his right shin. All the same, he chuckles in reply. "Easy there, Annie Oakley."

"I know who that is," falls the anthropologist's proud assertion.

"Alright, take it slow," instructs Booth, drawing back a pace. "Get your scope up, try to draw a bead."

"I've hunted before, Booth." Always quick to remind him.

"You've hunted deer?"

"Actually, no. Nothing in the Cervidae family."

"Yeah, well, these Cervidaes spook pretty easily. So watch the added movement."

Concentrating now on her objective, the rifle is shouldered and she gazes purposefully through the scope. He prompts her to tuck the stock tightly against her shoulder and, obediently, she heeds the advice.

The speed of her pulse flutters in anticipation and the thrill of the hunt. Combined with the feel of her partner's close proximity-offering support, low voice coaxing beside her ear, she's happy. If only for now. True, she doesn't revel in the killing of an innocent creature for pure sport, but food is necessary.

"Deep breath."

Following his encouragement, she's able to discern the dull tan of the stag's hide through the scope... tries to conceal her disappointment when the wandering animal disappears behind a fallen billboard. "Visual has been compromised. I can't get a clean mark."

It's almost too clinical for him. Too familiar. He hates when she has a gun. A shadow flickers behind his eyes.

Glancing ahead, he quickly comes to the same conclusion, pushing past the foggy memories. "Okay, come on."

Calmly, he guides her. Free hand falls to the small of her back.

This familiarity is better.

She notices his hesitance. But leaves it at that.

She follows closely behind as they pass out of the park and make contact with solid concrete. With no risk of making too much noise in the rustling grass, they breeze along in a silent jog. They emerge from around the opposite side of the billboard resting against abandoned scaffolding and random vehicles, taking cautionary steps.

A collection of small, quivering insects flutter around them. Brennan mentally catalogues several, but knows she will never know them all. Her forte isn't bugs, unlike...

Her concentration wavers. Only a fraction, then she's back.

A few trees sway in the gentle breeze, and Booth calculates it's coming from the West. The animal won't catch their scent.

He slows their pace to a steady crawl, backs grazing along the wall of what was once a kiosk. The darkening atmosphere bathes the surrounding vista in a warm glow given by the sun sitting low in the sky. Peering around the corner, a small jeep blocks his course. Through the grimy windows of the vehicle, the solitary deer moves leisurely along. He turns back to his eager cohort, nodding his head in the perceived direction. "All yours, Bones." A wink and he's all smiles and radiating charm.

She reflects his enthusiasm as they slip past the kiosk and behind the shadow of the parked jeep. The animal walks with its flank to them, and so they're able to step out from the blockage of the vehicle.

"Slowly," he says. She brings her rifle up. Confident. Aim is precise. "Wait for your shot."

Peering carefully through the advanced scope, the internal smart-chip calculating the distance, she takes a deep breath. Finger stretching gradually for the trigger.

"Just don't get ahead of me..." he speaks quietly beside her. If he has any call to get a shot in, he wants to be certain she won't get caught in front of him, the line of fire becoming compromised.

"I really don't think a common deer is going to pose a threat-"

A fierce roar cuts her off, shatters the silence like any gunshot.

They both start as a lioness tackles the unsuspecting prey to the ground without warning, incisors sinking deep into the throat. Booth stifles his urge to step protectively in front of his partner, but places a steady hand on her arm, nonetheless. The grip on his weapon tightens in response to the way his stomach knots.

Releasing the animals from the zoo had been her call-a choice he hadn't opposed. They couldn't sit idly by and let the poor things waste away in cages, prone to hunting their own weaker kind before starvation caught up.

The defeated stag bleats in distress, struggling feebly to escape its captor. Upon spotting the two humans, the lioness snarls at them, one large paw holding the smaller creature down.

She aims again, heart slamming against her ribcage and perseveration instincts kicking in. Though still a little peeved with the beast for interrupting. Booth also takes aim, but hesitates when, from around the corner, the hulking male arrives with the cubs. Swearing, tension coiling beneath the surface, he's about to redirect his muzzle at the larger threat in case of attack when a familiar bleeping activates from his person.

Tearing his gaze away from the scope, he transfers attention to his watch.

5:25 pm.

She knows that between the two of them, they would have little difficulty taking down both formerly confined cats. However, she's not at all willing to deprive the small cubs of their parents anytime soon.

Torn with indecision, he's quick to decide for her.

"Bones, we have to go."

Glancing over her shoulder, she squints past him toward the slowly setting sun at her back.

"_Now_." There's a beseeching in his eyes, locked away behind the brown. He isn't looking for an argument. They have to leave.

She nods quickly and lowers her weapon, hurrying over to him as the lion family begins to drag away their supper into the shadows.

* * *

The house they'd chosen is extravagant, but not exceedingly gaudy. It is lovely where the others around it are showy and overly ornate. A pure shade of white, tall, and entirely square-framed with a flat roof. Surrounding it and the block itself are decorative shrubs and a few planted trees. Several street lamps dot the sidewalk in front.

The neighborhood had been a comfortable one-pleasant, and just above middle class.

The FBI-issued SUV is parked ahead. The pair leave the Mustang just a block away, gathering their needed supplies and equipment before legging it the remainder of the way to their home. He keeps a hefty duffle bag slung over one shoulder and the two rifles on the other. She carries her small cooler in one hand and another pack over her arm.

Upon reaching the cement steps that pave the entrance, he digs into his bag and retrieves the flagon of ammonia, spurting it over their tracks as they enter the house to neutralize their scent.

* * *

Booth checks on the five Honda generators that run full-time in the back hall, donning a pink apron that reads _No Bitchin in My Kitchen_. He stocks the overflowing shelves with more canned goods they've collected. Other than the colorful apron, he's recently changed into jeans and a gray t-shirt.

The interior of the house is basic, but riddled with nice furniture and some more expensive pieces. A large television claims the focus of the living room. Though not his favored one hundred and three inches, it runs a close competition.

Three bedrooms reside on the upper level accessed by the staircase near the entrance door. Everything inside is mostly white, and very clean. Hardwood floors line the stairs, hallways, and the kitchen. Soft cream carpeting covers the rest.

The entire kitchen itself is stockpiled with goods. Two large fruit baskets claim the small island in the center of the culinary room.

As Booth passes the office where his partner is working away on her laptop, scribbling down notes and markers, he throws a smile her way. "Supper in five."

Without looking away from her task, she flings him a careless thumbs-up.

In the background, pre-recorded newscasts drone quietly, the bright-faced reporter speaking excitedly into the camera about the amount of snow gathering on DC streets. Moving about the kitchen, he fills two plates up with food and proceeds to relieve himself of the flashy apron. He quickly sets the table and digs into the refrigerator for two sodas and takes a seat.

She strolls into the adjoined dining area not a moment later, wearing a bright smile. She takes a seat next to him, popping open her drink. Admires the course awaiting her. "This looks wonderful."

"How goes the..." he gestures casually, loading his fork full of potatoes and taking a bite.

She gives him that small laugh of hers he's always enjoyed hearing. "It's really very good." Her reply is honest, comfortable in their mutually understood language. "I'd say a possible breakthrough is approaching, but I can't say that, of course."

He watches her with brown eyes and a smile that's tentative but playful as he digs in again. "Don't jump to conclusions," he quotes her through a mouthful of food.

She's tempted to pinch his arm across the table, but settles for bumping her foot against his in retaliation. A multicolored sock meets her bare toes. He smiles behind his fork.

The remainder of the dinner carries on in comfortable silence as they watch the old news, the dining area bathed in a warm, orange glow. Of course, there are a few encumbrances to decorate the evening.

"How's that salad, Bones?"

"Eat your vegetables, Booth."

* * *

Both partners occupy the space surrounding the sink and share in cleaning duty-rinsing the dishes and putting them away in sync. Their process involves Brennan doing the washing and Booth doing most of the drying and stashing.

She often teases him about how particular he is about where things belong. After about a year of living together in domestic solitude, they've comfortably adapted and the ribbing of quirky habits has become regular and often anticipated.

Reaching over, he presses the power on the iPod sitting nearby on the counter. It isn't long until the first few notes of _Hot Blooded_ begin to carry throughout the quite house from the small speakers. She laughs out loud as he nudges her side with his elbow and begins to hum along with the vocalist. Another nudge and she's happily singing along with her partner and the more on-key version by Foreigner.

She squeals when Booth drops his hand into the sink and splashes water at her. With a warranted retaliation in order, she quickly scoops up the sink faucet and sprays him full on, water splattering around the kitchen. Ever the overachiever.

Their laughter soon drowns out the softer notes of the song, filling the small space. The darkening rays from outside light the room beatifically, reflecting off the metal surfaces of the appliances and making the partners only glowing silhouettes. In the final rendition of the chorus, Booth happily twirls the laughing Brennan around the kitchen.

The dishes long since forgotten and the song nearing a close, they focus their efforts toward cleaning up the mess and toweling the floor and counters dry.

As they carry on with this, an all too familiar hum begins to sound from their wristwatches. The grave unease becomes instantly palpable.

Slowly, as if falling into a trance, their efforts simultaneously still. Smiles fade into staid masks. The entire affair leaves them both with an almost physical pain.

Together, they remain there for a time, neither making a sound. Soon, the tiny alarm is all that's heard as emblematic silence floods their eardrums. A steady tempo that leaves them motionless and chilled. Resounding.

_Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep. _

* * *

_Slam!_

He stares out with cheerless brown eyes past the window and into the world before heaving another barrier closed.

The dying sun brings to life the flecks of gold in his gaze with tragic finality. His arms spread out and grip the handles of the solid steel blockades, muscles constricting, sliding them firmly into place across the glass pane. Locking them shut.

It's too much like a prison.

The two of them repeat this act on every unprotected entrance point. He ends the routine with the twisting of the heavy deadbolt that runs across the entrance door horizontally with two hands, sealing it with a loud snap that echoes in their minds.

Haunting them, as shadows swallow the home.

* * *

The bathroom floor is cold.

In the darkness, she scoots a little closer to him, their shoulders touching. She stares ahead at the opposing wall, focused on no certain point, starry eyes glistening in the absent light. Other than her brief shift across the floor, she fears to move. Remains absolutely still. She notices by the lack of movement that perhaps he feels the same. Seated on the floor with their backs pressed to the wall, they wait.

When the shrieks come, he feels her flinch against him. Swallowing past the dryness of his throat, he reaches over and closes his hand over hers atop the cool tile.

The wails and snarls grow louder, angrier. Almost to a deafening volume. She ducks her head, blue stare now rigid against the floor. She draws her knees closer to her chest, curling her fist around the fabric of her hoodie. His unoccupied hand tightens reflexively around the solid ice of the Remington resting on the floor beside him.

She's shaking, and he isn't sure if it's because of the chill or other reasons that assault their senses from outside. He notices himself rendered to a small shiver.

Reaching across, he wraps his arm around her smaller shoulders and pulls her close against his side. Her touch immediately finds him and she hugs herself to him, burying her face in the junction of his neck and shoulder. Wires her eyes shut, trying to will out the din.

The upheaval of emotions only serve to further ingrain what occurs outside when night falls. During the day, a false front could be embraced, the nights ephemerally forgotten. But each twenty-four hours, the cataclysmic tandem would repeat itself.

A limbo of unperceived scale. Reliving the same disaster each day, the promise of change alluded to, but never quite attained.

It's Purgatory, disguised as existence.

Some nights are different. Some nights, she doesn't take it as hard. Some nights, his hands don't shake so badly. And some nights are more difficult than others.

This will be a long night.

* * *

_Meet me after dark again and I'll hold you  
Maybe tonight we'll fly so far away  
We'll be lost before the dawn  
If only night can hold you where I can see you  
Then let me never wake again_

_Somehow I know that we can't wake again from this dream  
It's not real, but it's ours_

-Before the Dawn-


	10. It is a Sad Salvation

****

**Author's Note: Continuing on, then.**

Quick note: I'm sorry I couldn't reply personally, as it was anonymous, but some people were wondering why BB don't just move a mattress into the bathroom at night. Several reasons: The first being that they don't stay in there all night, as you'll see in this chapter. Mostly just when night is at it's strongest, when they need to be alert. Which brings about the second reason. They can't be too comfortable. If by some miracle they were able to fall asleep, it would leave them even more vulnerable should a possible break-in occur. Hope that helps!

PS: Oh! And some more anonymous reviewers were concerned about Parker. I don't want to give anything away, but no worries. *wink* I love the little nipper too much to bring him any permanent, if any, harm.

**Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile! **

* * *

**CHAPTER NINE  
**IT IS A SAD SALVATION

*

_If all the flowers faded away  
And if all the storm clouds decided to stay  
If loving her is a heartache for me  
And if holding her means I have to bleed  
Then I am the martyr and love is to blame  
She is the healing and I am the pain  
Tomorrow will be as it always has been  
And I will fall to her again  
For I know I've come too close_

_Cause if right is leaving, I'd rather be wrong  
She is the sunlight, and the sun is gone_

-She is the Sunlight-

* * *

**  
**_**July 31**__**st**__**, 2009**_

_His couch isn't as soft as he's remembered it being. The television's on, but he doesn't hear a word of what's being said. _

_Three days ago, there was an arrest warrant put out for Dr. Temperance Brennan. The last time he'd laid eyes on her was two days before that. His superiors tell him it's for her own safety. DC citizens have tried more than once to take justice into their own hands. They lash out against the one who has tried to save them. _

_He knows there's little truth to their promises. __It isn't about protecting her. Their desires lay in guard of the greater people. The broader outlook. _

_He knows it's going to get worse. _

_Sleep is out of the question. Days worth of facial hair roughens his jaw and adds depth to the already dark shadows on his face. __He feels like a shadow. Inadequate. Balancing on the edge of existence, one douse of the light and he'll vanish. __Taking another pull from the bottle in his grasp, his clouded gaze soon falls on the small figurine occupying his coffee table. About five inches tall and sporting a cartoonish appearance. _

_A caveman. _

_His attire is mostly primal–as Neanderthals often preferred. The dark mop of hair is a ruffled mess. Behind his back, he holds the time-honored club, as if trying to conceal it from sight. On a round and scruffy face, big white teeth bare a wide and goofy smile. __The dwarfed cave-dweller also presents a humble little daffodil between two sausage-like fingers. Large brown eyes reflect the same smile. _

_Booth loves the little bastard. _

_A gift. From her. _

_Delivered with that secret smile she often saves just for him. And along with her favorite teasing remark: "Alpha male."_

_This only makes him cherish it more. At the sight of the tiny knuckle-dragger, he feels the ire drain from him. It's quickly replaced by a more real, tangible feeling. One that swallows the remainder of his energy like a marauding black hole. _

_He's tired. _

_Physically, yes, though he's not sure why. He hasn't had any cause for exertion. His problem has been the precise opposite, as a matter of fact. For the past several weeks, he's been forced to sit and do nothing. Emotionally, he knows he's spent._

_God, is he tired. _

_He sinks further into the overwhelming cushions of his sofa, trying to ignore the burn behind his eyes as he downs another healthy swig, transferring the blaze to his throat. This is better. _

_He's hoped this one would finally seize his consciousness and lay it to rest. If only for an hour. _

_He hates drinking. It's too much like his father. __But he just wants to forget. He doesn't know anything else. It numbs him. This is what he does know. _

_His weary eyes attempt to focus on his watch to learn the time, but after a moment of struggling, he realizes he doesn't really care. What he is certain of though, is he's sick and tired of getting drunk every night and wallowing in his sorrow. __He hates that he can't do anything–can't fix what's gone so horribly wrong. The lack of control brings about an aching, physical pain. The alcohol's supposed to erase the pain. It doesn't. _

_Assuming an intensely pensive frown, he's just about to attempt a decision as to what he's going to do next when there's a knock at his door. If he'd been paying any attention to the television, he probably wouldn't have heard it. _

_Angling his head to glare at the offending piece of wood, he debates answering the thing. More than anything, right now, he just wants to be left alone. __Gradually though, a deeper frown creases his brow. There's no second knock. Either the person's waiting–doubtful–or they've already left. Deliberating, he finally huffs an irritated sigh and rises from the couch, beer in hand, and stalks over to the door. _

_So much for getting ass-over-teakettle drunk. He can still walk a straight line. _

_He privately admits that the callous "What?" issued to the person on the opposite side of the door as he tears it open is a little indecorous, but isn't in the mood to care. _

_Until he sees those eyes waiting from behind the oak. _

_He stills immediately, drawn expression losing all trace of hostility. He feels his chest constrict at the deep vulnerability pooling in the depths of those twin blue stars. Her hair is slightly disheveled and her face is ashen in the glow of the hall lights. Somehow, she looks smaller. __Fragile, like a dried rose petal. Her eyes beg him what her face leaves already exposed. _

Help me.

_For a split second, he sees a pang of fear glisten in her brittle stare, and he's realized he hasn't said anything. Has offered no response to her arrival. He tries, then. Tries with all his strength to form the words, offer some sort of acknowledgement. __His lips part to do so, but his voice doesn't comply. So he does the only thing he knows to do. _

_Instinct forays. This is what he knows. _

_Discarding the bottle and taking a step closer, he seizes her against his chest, freeing the relieved breath he hadn't realized he's been holding for the past week. She gasps into him, an influx of emotions surging to the surface as total peace and security envelopes her. _

_For now, she's safe. To him, she isn't some fugitive he'll be harboring against his government's explicit commands. She's his partner–he's been deprived of this woman's presence for what feels like months. _

_For now, he has hope. _

* * *

_**October 2**__**nd**__**, 2009**_

_Panic is broadcasted. Total upheaval fills the small television screen. A newscaster unveils shocking events. _

"_Not two hours ago, the streets of DC became an interagency warzone. An informal capital punishment gone horribly wrong. Dr. Temperance Brennan, initiator of the Krippin Virus that's been infecting the entire East coast, carrier of the virus herself, was ordered to be terminated on sight today in protection of American citizens and national security. Law enforcement officials remain mute on the subject, some denying the allegations._

_The quarantined hit was initially supposed to be carried out by a highly-trained SAC within the Federal Bureau of Investigation, but this sad tale quickly fell to violent retribution when the agent turned on his own team. _

_Special Agent Seeley Booth, former elite sniper with the U.S. Army Rangers, abandoned those orders and promptly took out four Intelligence Agency field officers. A young man has come forward with footage of this gruesome incident, but wishes to remain anonymous. Be advised… the content is disturbing." _

_A cell phone-quality video fills the screen. Audio is a lost cause. _

The gun is already resting in his palm, weight familiar. The metal is smooth and cold. She's tucked against his side.

The decision is already made, no matter how much he hates killing. No matter how much pain this will cause him. It cuts him, deeply. But he cannot sit back and watch the looming atrocity. Cannot allow her to be killed. Executed at the mouth of some alley.

It's a standoff. Shots fired. The last Intelligence agent drops like a stone.

_The rekindled screams distort the audio even further._

There have been casualties, but she's still alive.

Painful. Sickening.

But it's enough.

_The shaky video glitches, snows. It's done. _

"_It's said that Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan had been professional partners–the subtext of just how close they were isn't known. Clearly…" _

_He drowns out the rest, hanging his head. His eyes close. A slow hand covers his face, a breath expels shamed despair. The weight is heavy on his shoulders, the hollowness of his stomach intense. _

_The haunting call of the television is too much. He switches it off. _

_He feels responsible. Knows he's not. _

_He'd risked everything telling him. Assigning him–vouching for him. Had he really expected a different ending? _

"_Go with God, Seeley," Cullen speaks quietly into the empty office. "And may He forgive us all."_

* * *

_**August 15**__**th**__**, 2010**_

His eyes slowly open against the sunlight warming his face, watch trilling at him that his nap is over. Mumbling a tired groan, he shifts on the soft mattress supporting him and rubs an arm over his eyes. Dark hair sticks at odd angles. He fingers the St. Christopher's chain around his neck.

Yawning, Booth rolls over onto his side and lets his hand find the nightstand where his Beretta rests faithfully. Beside the pistol are several photo frames that keep pictures of Parker, the Squints, and random family members. Nearby, Bob the Caveman keeps watchful guard over Jasper the Pig, as if the little porker were his own misbegotten young.

Shifting his attention past the nightstand of memories, his eyes finally rest on her sleeping form. The nightstand sits between two full-sized beds, dividing the space in the open room. He watches her with drowsy eyes as she sleeps just a short reach away.

Several errant tresses of auburn have strayed to brush along the fair expanse of a cheekbone with feather-light care. The sun highlights the outline of shimmering hues, giving her an ethereal halo.

_She is the reason. _

He's done unspeakable things. For her. For this woman. He'll do them again if he must. He can't not. He's never been willing to deny her safety.

People never really change.

The graceful curve of her neck is partially hidden by the more obedient locks fanned out across her slender shoulders. Her features are facing him, slack and peaceful, but with the tiniest of frowns on her mouth. No matter how badly he longs to kiss that worry line away, he constrains himself to silent stillness.

He'd reset her own wristwatch on the nightstand near her pillow so she'd be allowed just a few more minutes of rest. Knowing he'll get an earful for that later, he doesn't really mind. Watching her sleep is a privilege–the most cathartic and calming exercise he's ever engaged in.

She's close enough to touch, but so far from his reach. A tragedy he'll accept if only he can watch her at peace.

Despite having heard her murmur something softly in her innocent slumber, her husky voice breaking the quiet manages to take him by surprise. "You set my alarm back again." There's no malice to her voice. The lightly evident trace of amusement isn't lost to him either.

He can't hide the grin that forms. And with her eyes yet comfortably veiled, he doesn't see a reason to.

"Good morning, Booth," he happily pesters. "How did you sleep?"

This is what they know.

Eyes still hidden beneath their lids, a ghost of a smile curves the corners of her mouth.

* * *

Their daily morning routines carry on without alteration. Ten minutes spent side by side on separate treadmills, jogging forward into their own fabricated daydreams, commences the schedule. Both wear comfortable gray sweatpants and white tank tops.

He dons the twin beating gloves as she punches and kicks away at them, glaring harmlessly when he holds one just out of her reach and claims it unintentional.

They both share in damaging the large, swinging heavy-bag which rattles merrily on its chain. Hold each other's shins while doing sit-ups.

Towards the closing of their early morning workout, she sits and reads with her feet resting atop the small of his back while he performs his pushups.

When she partakes in her yoga, he massages the kinks out of her neck and shoulders. His hands are a fascinating thing to watch. She does the same for him. Her favored technique is neuromuscular–reducing pain and releasing pressure on nerves caused by injuries, old and new.

There's often little talking during these sessions, unless it involves a prescheduled bicker. Mostly, they train in silence and bask in the relaxing ambiance of the other's company.

In the mornings, they're often still striving to forget what transpires during the nights previous, until the ugly circle can begin again.

* * *

"Do you want company?" he asks between chews, poking at his breakfast with his fork.

Swallowing some orange juice, she finally shakes her head. "I really don't want you down there." It's the truth. Her truth. She meets his eyes from across the table. "I'd rather you stay here, where it's…" The words die off, lost on her tongue. Her gaze falls.

"Safe?" he finishes for her, smiling gloomily from behind his own glass. A silence settles around them before he continues. "I get it, really. Just curious."

"Can you keep yourself busy?" She diverts the topic, rising from her seat, her plate clean.

He sends her a crooked grin. Inclines his head toward the television. "Bandicoot."

Her laughter is light, easy. This is familiar. It's better. "Are we through with the movie, by the way?"

"Yup. We should bring it back today, though. Otherwise Fred will make us pay the late fee."

Her nose wrinkles in distaste. "He's creepy. I don't like him."

Brutally honest, forever and always.

A secret smile slowly spreads across his face. The mischievous glint reclaims his eyes. "He's got a crush on you, you know."

She snorts and swats him on the arm as she passes. Carries her plate and glass to the sink and deposits them. "Fred can go fly a plane."

"Kite, Bones. Fred can go fly a kite."

"I stand by my metaphor," she asserts, moving for the doorway under the staircase. "Piloting a plane is a great deal more perilous than piloting a kite."

"What if he was standing in a thunderstorm?"

He snickers while simultaneously ducking the dishtowel aimed for his head as his partner disappears into the basement.

* * *

Descending the steps leading below the house, Brennan dons the white lab coat hanging faithfully in wait at the bottom. The room is rather spacious. Blue ultraviolet light soaks her in the small entrance pass where she fills her hands in sanitary cleanser. Scrubs them clean.

Metal shelves contain various scientific solutions and equipment paves her way into the full room. She switches on the entirety of the illumination source, and several fluorescent lights flicker to life to reveal a smaller version of her work station that still exists at the Jeffersonian. The walls are lined with notes, trial photographs, metal cabinets, and other scientific apparatuses. In the center, a desk houses the main computer–her preferred work station of the entire space.

Drawing her hair back into a tie, she clicks a few sequential keys on the keyboard until her monitor comes to life. Her reflection appears on the screen, thanks given to the small camera perched atop, and a red record signal blinks at the bottom half of the display.

Brainy Smurf peers up at her from beside the keyboard, ever questioning. Plastic curiosity.

Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, she turns her attention back to the screen.

"Doctor Temperance Brennan," she begins formally in her clinical tone. "August fifteenth, two thousand and ten. GA-series serum 391, animal trials. Streaming video." Moving away from her desk, she approaches a back area of the room, arriving at a small hollow space in the wall.

It's covered by a thick black veil of fabric that lines to the floor. The protrusion it conceals is nearly as tall as she. Reaching over, Brennan flips another switch, lighting up the small area. Overcoming her nerves, she stares for a short time at the sable barrage. Bowing her head and taking a deep, settling breath, she reaches over and yanks the two halves of black apart like curtains.

All at once, eighteen small transparent cases welcome her. Six across, three tall.

Within, infected carriers in the form of rodents leap at her, hissing and baring their teeth, attacking the barriers that contain them. Their beady gray eyes glare fiercely with only instinct and malice. Hairless bodies quiver. Through their sickly, translucent skin, she can discern the tiny blue veins pulsing with feral rage. Little jaws snapping, some fissure the surface of their cases with the force behind their collisions.

Brennan, face falling, shakes her head in sad disapproval. "GA-series results appear typical," she surmises for the recording. Pacing along to examine each infected rodent, she taps at the exterior which earns her another snarl from her current subject. "Compound one, three, four, six, eight, nine, ten, eleven…" she trails off, feeling her spirits drop in discouragement, "fourteen, sixteen, eighteen, did not kill the virus."

She tilts her head, observing. Eyes calculating.

"Compounds two, five, seven, twelve, thirteen, fifteen, seventeen…" Her eyes slide closed. "All killed the host."

She looks on sadly at the motionless ones which she can no longer help. Even if they were only rats, they are still innocent and have died because of her studies.

She's ready to leave the small creatures to their peace when her skilled eye catches something unusual. Angling her head, she slowly makes her way over to the center of the compounds, stooping over slightly.

"Hold on…"

Inside compound six, the assigned rodent–while its appearance resembles its brothers and sisters–does not attack its container. It doesn't hiss or screech until its throat is raw. Instead, it's content to sniff at the air of its housing box and shuffle around within.

She feels an odd flutter in her middle. "Compound six appears to be showing decreased aggression response. Partial pigmentation return." Reaching into the pocket of her lab coat, she withdraws a small flashlight, shining its narrow beam at the critter inside. "Slight pupil constriction." Unable to help the fascinated smile that forms on her parted lips, she breathes a small laugh of wonder. "GA-series 391, compound six. Next candidate… for human trials."

This is less exciting, by the way the buzzing in the pit of her stomach indicates. Yet all the same, it is.

Hesitating, she permits her smile to grow. Feels a brief sense of accomplishment flood over her. Much better.

Reaching out, she taps fondly on the glass.

"Hang in there, number six."

* * *

_**July 31**__**st**__**, 2009**_

_She allows him to hold her, recalling again how it feels to be in his arms. _

_Remembers this. _

_For a moment, everything is right again. They're back in time._

_She knows she should get inside, so as not to be seen, but can't bring herself to withdraw from him. To her dismay, tears have started to form, making her surroundings turn blurry. Ignoring the world, she buries her face in the confines of his shirt, feeling her failures evaporating from the moment of his contact. _

_She unravels. _

_She's been so afraid. Lost, alone. Without direction. On the run, but unable to fully leave. She can't abandon him. __Couldn't possibly._

_The feel of him gently caressing her hair and back is overwhelming, soothing away all things hurtful and mending her wounds. "It's all right," he whispers. And she believes him. _

_She holds him tighter, grips his upper arms. She can feel the power, the strength, poised there. If she can somehow feed off that strength, his arms around her will make her stronger. __Somehow, they must, because she's not crumbling into pieces. _

_This comfort he now provides slowly melts into her, filling her with new life and restoring her hope. All those nights isolated and on the run, forced on her knees by desperation, are forgotten in his embrace. _

_She knows this. It's peaceful. _

_It feels like home. _

* * *

_I didn't want you to see me cry  
I'm fine, but I know it's a lie  
Look me in the eyes so I know you know  
I'm everywhere you want me to be  
The last night you'll spend alone  
I'll wrap you in my arms and I won't let go  
I'm everything you need me to be_

-The Last Night-


	11. A Piece of Solitude

****

**Author's Note: Next!**

**Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile! **

* * *

**CHAPTER TEN  
**A PIECE OF SOLITUDE

*

_A heavy cross you bear  
A stubborn heart remains unchanged  
Dear God, I've sealed my fate  
Running through hell, heaven can wait  
Long road to ruin there in your eyes  
No tomorrow, no dead end in sight  
Let's say we take this town  
No king or queen of any state_

_For every piece to fall in place  
Forever gone without a trace  
Your horizon takes its shape_

-Long Road to Ruin-

* * *

Prepared and dressed for the new day, the partners set out in the truck with downtown DC as their destination. With her, the serum results of Compound Six, sealed away safely in a plastic evidence bag to test at the lab. This happened to be a good thing, due to how she now heatedly berates her companion for dropping it into the spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove.

"For the hundredth time, Bones–I didn't mean to." This is his maintained fervency. He takes the corner a little sharper than necessity calls for.

"You're the one with the quick reflexes," she prompts derisively from her place in the passenger seat. Rolls her eyes at his steep count of apologies. Her attentive eyes inspect the recently rinsed bag that's looking a little sullied.

He's certain her heavy perusal is severely overplayed. Piqued, he shoots her a chagrined smile she labels immediately as sarcastic. "Well, if you wouldn't have thrown it at me…"

"Tossed."

"You threw it."

"_Why_ would I throw it?" she argues, eyes wide with stern disapproval. Oblivious to his logic. "It's a severely sensitive solution. I wouldn't just go flinging it around anywhere."

"I didn't _say_ that you flung it, Bones. I said you _threw_ it."

"I certainly didn't. We wouldn't even be having this conversation if it weren't for your untamed enthusiasm. _Come on, Bones. Lemme see what came out of the little scrounger_," she mocks in a falsetto voice, assuming a more heightened posture. Puffs out her chest for good measure.

His frown most resembles a pout, eyes rounded and pitiful looking. "I don't sound like that."

She hides her satisfied smirk by looking away and out the window at the passing scenery.

They ride along in silence for some time before she hears him clear his throat. Glancing over, she sees his hand draped indifferently over the steering wheel in a manner that oozes relaxation, but she can tell by his clenched jaw and wandering eyes that he's bothered. Tapping her fingertips distractedly on the windowsill, she is content to wait. No doubt he wants her to initiate the upcoming exchange, but she says nothing.

It isn't long before she hears the drumming of his own fingers on the wheel, creating an anxious tempo. "The solute," he begins quietly at last, tipping his head at the plastic seal in her hands. "It's okay?"

She knows he's truly sorry, despite their little dispute. He's aware just how much the tiny cylinder of vermin blood means to her. The importance it holds being far greater than the basic title of its label.

She faces him with a tolerant expression, issues an understanding smile. "Yes. No harm, no penalty." He tries to deny the amusement twitching at his mouth for her mispronunciation of the metaphor, but her skills in reading him have grown dangerously perceptive. "What?"

Silence.

"_What_, Booth?" She peers at him with a combination of curiosity and annoyance.

"Foul."

Her brow creases further, bottom lip jutting out a fraction from her face. God, she's adorable.

"No harm, no foul."

An exasperated sigh. "Whatever. Fine, then. And for the record, _solute_ is the incorrect classification."

* * *

The truck slows to a standstill just outside the movie rental store. Killing the engine, both partners step out. Booth tosses the due DVD from hand to hand, whistling merrily with a bounce to his step. Brennan follows leisurely at his side. Reaching the entry door, they happen upon two unmoving individuals. One is female and dressed in likeness to some Hollywood starlet, and the other is male, dressed in plain jeans and a ridiculously bright orange hooded sweatshirt. The hood pulled up over his head in enigmatic fashion.

"Morning, Fred!" Booth hails enthusiastically, digging a set of keys out of his pocket and assigning them to the locked door. "New girlfriend?" His presumption is furtive and directed toward the sleek brunette at Fred's side.

Beside him, Brennan shies away from the tall and slender character. "Now you've got his attention," she mutters to Booth. "He wouldn't have noticed until you said something." She wears her most severe expression. He isn't intimidated.

"It's called being polite, Bones," he reprimands. Pausing, he glances between the one called Fred and his disgruntled partner.

Fred says nothing.

His partner's silence also withstanding, Booth rolls his eyes. "Nice. You probably hurt his feelings." Her eyes widen in comic disbelief before she expels an indignant huff, averts, and crosses her arms. "Nice sweatshirt there, Fred," Booth praises dynamically. "Don't set it down anywhere." Breaking from the door, he leans over to Brennan, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. "Tell him you like his shirt."

The forensic anthropologist is clearly not devoted to that idea, and it shows on her face. With all the discretion of a billboard. His eyebrows shoot up, lips pursing and eyes admonishing. Like a parent forcing their child to apologize.

At last, forfeiting the upper hand, she schools her features into one of forced encouragement. "An impressive article of clothing you've obtained, Fred." Turning away, she goes on under her breath. "The brightly festooned material will do well in attracting yourself a mate."

Booth hides his abrupt bark of laughter by shoving open the jammed door, holding it open for his companion to enter below the arc of his arm. He aims a brusque nod at the two situated mannequins who stay behind–never able to witness the interior of the store.

"Fred appears to have acquired a new trainee," Brennan surmises after he joins her in the rental store.

"He's had the same trainee for the past three months," he contends, waving sociably to a family of mannequins located near the Children's section. He nudges her with his elbow. "Maybe Fred was finally bumped, huh?"

"I'll admit, I'm optimistic," she agrees. Moving away from him, she heads past the Thrillers.

He beelines for the alphabetical section, replacing their recently viewed film before claiming the next one in line. While screening the back cover so as to conclude ahead of time whether the film will be any good, she meets up with him again, waving one in his face expectantly.

"_Showboat_?" he reads, brow furrowing. "But we're only starting on the C's." He waggles his own find before her for emphasis.

A shrug.

"I'm a rebel," she smiles shyly. Blue eyes sparkle. "I want to watch _Showboat_." She pokes at him with quiet eagerness, and he almost swears she's asking him for candy or some sweetly enticing toy at the shopping center.

He chuckles, snatching the case from her and heading for the checkout. "Fine."

Behind the counter, a young mannequin dressed in an oversized denim coat and baseball cap greets them.

"Morning, Hank."

"Good morning, Henry," she seconds. At her partner's derisive look, she calmly goes on. Gives him her best disapproving glare. "I told you, Booth. He doesn't appreciate when you call him that. He prefers Henry."

Eyes widening in a juvenile expression serves as his only comeback. He turns back to the mannequin, scooping up their merchandise. "Whatever."

She privately smiles in victory.

On their way out, he swats Hank's hat over his plastic eyes and nudges Fred in his partner's general direction, as if the thing were moving for her. Earning a startled squawk for his efforts and another glare of doom, he chuckles delightedly and bumps against her. She bats him away in pouty annoyance.

He climbs back into their vehicle, Brennan in tow. She truly is the most adorable thing he's ever seen, surly expression and all.

* * *

"You want me to what?" he cranes his neck to observe his partner. She's gathering beside him.

Confusion paints across his face. His rifle is slung over one shoulder, muzzle aimed at the ground as he progresses forward at a gradual pace. They amble along through a healthy cornfield they've sowed themselves, breaking off ready ears for the taking. The bright sun shines high in the sky, barely a cloud in sight.

"We need to capture one," she repeats, tossing away a rotted ear of the vegetable. Her tone is formal, ever the empirical scientist. She wears a pair of tan cargo pants and a black t-shirt, a pouch slung over her shoulder with her own rifle. Her partner wears jeans, a black t-shirt also, and has discarded the stifling brown jacket.

He stills in his work, giving her a pained look. "That's just…" A grimace. He's quiet. "That's a bad idea no matter how you look at it."

This pessimistic attitude is unusual for him.

"I know." At last, she turns to face him, blue eyes sober. It's unusual for her, too. "But it needs to be done."

They relapse into more silence. She can feel his eyes on her, his features schooled and devoid of expression. Behind the brown of their color, she has a relatively good read, however.

Finally, he sighs and goes back to his gathering, stuffing another ear into his duffel. "So, it would be in the house." His tone is dull, reluctant. "You'd look after it. Like a pet." She isn't certain if he's being bitter, or just speaking his thoughts. When he glances at her though, she catches the fleeting upturn of his lips. "As if your little reaver rats weren't enough."

She feels the hitch that lifts the corners of her mouth. Shifting the sling more comfortably over her shoulder, she tilts her head in close scrutiny of him. "Alpha-Ranger is afraid of a rodent breakout?"

Booth looks appropriately offended. "Not afraid, Bones. They just creep me out. We get an escapee there, no big deal. Ghetto stomp, problem solved."

She dissolves into husky laughter at his colorful choice of resolution. "And by your methods, I assume you're skeptical it would yield the same results, should a human specimen escape. Which it wouldn't."

"Just saying." He shrugs, concentrating on his harvesting. "One well-placed boot heel would fall a little short, is all. Color me dubious."

"You think it will be difficult."

"Damn difficult. Easier playing leapfrog with a unicorn."

She laughs abruptly, rolling her eyes. But still feels that uncomfortable buzz. He jokes more when he's nervous. A well-known defense mechanism. "Well, considering your prior full flexibility to constitutional rights as a law enforcer, I didn't think you'd see the intricacy."

He looks up immediately, facing breaking out into a huge grin, even as an eyebrow goes up in skepticism at her amusingly uncharacteristic remark. "Well, what exactly did you have in mind?" he responds through a smile. "Chloroform and a rope?"

Her own face lights up in amusement. "Nothing quite so primal, no."

A moment, happy and at ease.

But the bright countenance fades, and it isn't long before that pensive frown is back. As she stands scrutinizing him, he turns back around, staring pointlessly at the quivering stalks of corn swaying in the breeze. The entire field is alive with whispered hushes of dancing leaves, yet his voice still carries the weight of a pin drop in a silent room. "I dunno, Bones."

She nods to no one, suddenly finding herself at a loss for words as a more somber expression falls over her features. Her gaze flickers to her feet. "You support me, though. Don't you?" Voice unexpectedly small.

He faces her, their eyes meeting. He holds her gaze steady for a beat before replying. "You say you need this thing, that's enough for me. So… mixed metaphors aside, yeah." He pauses, but his voice is evidence enough of the confidence and faith he has in her. He offers a crooked grin. "I'll just stock up extra on the elephant gun ammo."

She fiddles distractedly with a loose thread on her duffel. She'd felt a lifting in her chest at his words, but no pleasant thoughts follow suit when she speaks again. "I don't think I can do it without you."

His smile falls briefly, and he looks away. Kicking at the dirt halfheartedly with his feet, he manages a casual shrug. "I wasn't going to let you do it alone."

His boots kick up small clouds of dust. The hot sun beats down on them both, and already a sheen of sweat shines on their skin. The slight breeze ruffles her hair lightly, but it's warm enough that there's no relief from the afternoon sun and the oppressive, humid heat that wraps around them like a wet blanket.

"It's dangerous for you," she grimly reminds, not wanting to ask such a thing of him. He nudges a cornstalk in thought. "But… you know how to trap things. With your training, I mean…" trailing off, she sighs. He says nothing–only busies himself once more with the unpicked ears of corn. Enjoying the calming moment of silence while it had lasted, she breaks it. "Booth… if you don't want to, I understand. I'll find another way. Figure something–"

"No," he cuts her off before she can go on, his voice distant, quiet. "I'll help you. It's just," he shakes his head, shrugging off his original train of thought, "not important." He turns back to his work, throwing another smile over his shoulder at her. "I lost the ability to say no to you a long time ago, Temperance."

And she's content to watch him, evidence of a hidden smile peeking through. The things he does for her, in her name, blows her mind. For lack of a more clinical term. The task will be dangerous for her, yes. But not nearly the level of threat it poses for him. He shares the risk of possibly getting harmed, _killed_, along with her, just as it's been for the past year, true. But not only could he be killed, he could be…

She forces the upsetting thought away. Merely considering it causes a painful lump to rise unbidden in her throat and a deep ache to swell in her chest cavity. She notices her hands trembling as she dislodges another ear of corn and fights to steady them, hoping he doesn't notice.

What they premeditate to do was only inevitable. It's the next logical step. There's no alternative option. The test now calls for a human specimen. It's all for the better.

It's progress.

But why does she suddenly feel this incredible pit in the bottom of her stomach?

Yes, he'd said he'll help her.

She wonders if she'll let him.


	12. The Child is Lost

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**Author's Note: Since I was gone over the weekend, and because ffnet was being a loser for the past like 3 days, I've decided to upload two chapters on this fine evening!**

**Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile! **

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* * *

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**CHAPTER ELEVEN**  
THE CHILD IS LOST

*

_In my dreams there's a place without war  
No more guns, no more pain, no more hurt  
It's a world full of joy without sadness  
People sing, people dance, with all happiness  
So this place will be pure and all healthy  
You can live your life in heaven  
Take me to my dream, love is everything  
Where there is no war, and the children sing_

_But I know it's just a dream  
Will it every change this life?  
Hope one day it'll turn around  
Into the place that I dream about_

-My Dream-

* * *

_**July 29**__**th**__**, 2009**_

_The streets are quieter now. _

_Lately, very few opt for conversation in their daily schedules. Many wear the protective breathing masks, simple though they are. Those who don't wear the masks are disfavored just as greatly as those who are required to, by law. __Those without them are, to some extent, safe. Others are spiteful of this. America was considered a land of equality. This immunological divergence is the origin of many recent and heinous crimes against fellow citizens. Another quickly spreading crisis to add to the numbers. _

_The atmosphere is a sad reflection of the world and the souls who call it their home. The skies above are gray, the weather just as bleak. The rain hasn't come, but it will. __It's common now. The sky–always in mourning. Heaven's tears falling down upon the nation's first city. _

_Routine quarantine inspections carry out endlessly on the streets. They are indiscriminate, but the families they tear apart are more than a simple number in a study. Real people suffer. __Children taken away from their parents at the park, husbands and wives separated, family pets shot and killed in plain sight…_

_What had once been the archetype of achievement, illustrates now only devastation. All because of one invisible assassin. _

_He feels a slight resistance on his hand and glances down. "Hey," he prods gently, stopping beside his much smaller companion. "What's the matter?"_

_Parker doesn't abandon his resolute study of the ground beneath his tiny sneakers. Never releasing the larger hand that guards his own, he leans into his father. Blond curls frame his cheeks, shadowing downcast eyes. _

_Both father and son wear green bands around their wrists, signifying their purity. _

_Finding his voice is difficult. _

"_Where's Bones?" he asks quietly at last, nudging the sidewalk with his toe. He's been afraid to ask, fearing the answer._

_They've been to their favorite merry-go-round, but he'd asked to leave when they were the only two there. It feels wrong to hear the music alone, with no laughter or cheering to harmonize the mechanical notes. _

_Booth feels a sudden ache blossom in his chest and immediately battles away any unwelcome emotion that swells behind his eyes. His son cannot see him cry._

_He's known this question would come. And God, what it does to him. To hear it voiced aloud. A large crack appears in his stoic mask that he's been donning every day. The brave face, for his son. Soldiering on. Clearing his throat against the burgeoning lump, he lowers himself to a kneel. Two sets of identical brow eyes align. _

_He struggles, searches for an explanation. He loses count how long they remain there, staring back at each other evenly. Words are not needed when a deeper bond promises more, but the younger Booth is not satisfied. _

_The boy's small face holds an innocent sadness, humble mind fighting to understand. "Is she sick?" he tries, large eyes blinking slowly._

_Booth releases a ragged breath, another stab of pain burrowing in his chest. He shakes his head. "No, Parker. Bones isn't sick." The frailty of his own voice makes him frown._

_Parker gazes back at him sadly, eyes round and pitiful with welling tears. "I miss her." _

_A fist clenches around his heart, twisting in agony. An influx of emotions surges to the surface, and he's left choking back a cry at his son's unbridled grief. A simple nod is the only movement he can conjure. "I miss her, too." _

_And yet it's Parker, always a constant surprise with his youthful wisdom, who nods in agreement. His tiny lips press together in determination, and his fingers tighten around his father's hand. _"_You protect her, Dad." It's an order. The boy will settle for no less. "Make sure she'll be okay. I would," he ducks his head in disappointment, "but I'm too little." _

_The child speaks. _

_Booth feels his voice catch in his throat, fights to see his son through the moist fog in his vision. He squeezes his small shoulders affectionately. _

"_Yeah, buddy," he breathes tearfully, pulling his son into a bracing hug. He squeezes his eyes shut, grazing his cheek over the blond head of curls. "Daddy'll protect Bones." _

* * *

_**October 2**__**nd**__**, 2009**_

_Parker sees the news, too. _

_Watches the event unfold, as if he were there in the flesh. _

_His rapt attention is wired to the small screen, the reporter's voice echoing in his ears. Coursing through his tiny body, setting every nerve on fire. He doesn't know quite yet what this feeling is. A combination of fear and restrained wrath. He's inherited his father's will to protect those close to him. If he lives long enough, he'll become a great man._

_He stands before it, still. Brent has tried to lead him away from the room, away from the secondhand screams and gunshots. __The child resists, refuses to move. His eyes never stray. _

_This is devotion. _

_The grown up instead hurries to the kitchen to comfort the boy's mother, who's fled, who can't stop saying "Oh my God." It's her mantra. To repeat this, it calms her. Yet it doesn't. She doesn't know what else to do. _

_The boy watches. __Sees the elder Booth fill the screen. Bones is with him. _

_People will speak badly of his father, but he knows better. He _knows_. This child can see._

_He blinks back the tears in his eyes, stills his trembling lip. He won't see him for a long time. If ever again. __A sob breaks from his pursed lips. Just one. _

_But he's proud. Proud that his father–_his_ father–has done right against the overshadowing current of bad choices. His father has broken no promises. _

_The outcast is the hero. __Everyone else is wrong. _

_**

* * *

**_

August 15_**th**__**, 2010**_

_CRACK!_

The foreign entry door swings open, snapping at the hinges from the force of the blow. Booth enters weapon first into the home, Brennan at his side with her own drawn at the ready.

"Line of fire, Bones. Keep focused."

"And stay behind you?" she further supplies without breaking concentration.

"You're with me."

She barely contains her smile at his corrective remark, calling her as his equal. Together, they push forward. Treating the supposedly abandoned residence as if hunting down a criminal, they coast swiftly through, ready for anything. She does as he does, learning from him wherever she can. And if she's willing, he's only too happy to teach and feels flattered by her interest.

Satisfied at the result they're met with, they begin searching the rather luxurious house. The rooms are made less classy by the amount of scrap dirtying every space and counter. Booth scoops up a nearby remote lantern, turning it in inspection and checking the batteries.

"Am I improving?" she queries hopefully of her developing skills from another room.

"Oh, totally," he enthuses, stuffing the lantern into his duffel. "You pick things up pretty fast."

"I am a quick study," she agrees, reentering the room, coloring shyly at his praise. She approaches a coffee table littered with pill bottles and newspaper clippings.

She's entreated to a teasing version of the charm smile. "Pretty soon you won't need me anymore, huh?"

She shoots him a quelling glance in disapproval. "Don't say things like that."

Besides just the small table, the clippings are riddled throughout the entire home, cluttering walls and cabinets alike. He walks into the room, boots thudding against the hardwood floor as he steps up to a window. Large, stifling curtains hang oppressively from the crest all the way to the floor. Taking up the copious fabric in his grasp, he yanks it completely from the rod. Brilliant sunlight instantly bathes the home. He repeats this act on two more windows. "Anything we can use?" he asks, nodding at the pills before heading to the kitchen.

She reads carefully over the labels, shaking her head the negative. "No."

In the kitchen, Booth rummages through the nearest cabinet. A large article had been stapled right onto the wood, the bold words burned on the page.

_Infected dogs can come out at dusk. STAY IN THE LIGHT._

Tossing aside a box of stale cereal, he digs further. Brennan comes over to him, peeking over his shoulder as he retrieves two small cans. "Red salmon," he reads of one, then grins excitedly of the second. "Actual spam." A little _ha!_ of laughter. "Nice."

"I have to agree with you," she concurs, smiling.

He hands off the two cans for her to place in her duffel and sweeps past, taking notice of the shelf covered in CDs. Tossing away the ones of no interest to him, he occasionally comes across one worth mentioning. "Here you go, Bones," he calls with mocking enthusiasm. "Catpower's greatest hits." He sees her poke her head around the corner, aiming a dirty look his way. He chuckles before going back to his inspection. "Wow. ACDC, Back in Black," he reads aloud, turning another one over to examine the backside. "Grateful Dead." Stuffing the CDs into his pack, he cranes his neck in her general direction. "Hey, and I'll nab this Catpower just for you!"

She joins him in the dining room, narrowing her eyes at him, though disregarding his previous comment. "Are we done?"

"Yeah, looks like it," he decides, hand resting below her shoulder to guide her along. "Let's go."

They make it all the way to the entrance hall before he notices the ajar door. Something settles over him, numbing every reflex and previous motivation. He hesitates, glancing back.

"What is it?" she asks, catching his look.

His brow creases, but his face is unreadable. Nevertheless, she follows him when he slowly approaches the space. Reaching out, his fingers brush the wood and nudge open the door. With a lazy swing, that's all it takes, a flood of deep sorrow consumes him.

Inside the simple bedroom, an indiscernible body lies in the bed. A plastic biohazard sheet hangs from the ceiling like a mosquito net.

The body is small. Too small.

He looks over his shoulder at the closed door beside them, focus eventually resting on the note attached to it.

_Happy Birthday, Matty! Don't open until Saturday! Love, Mom and Dad._

He opens the door and takes a hesitant step in, gazing around at the brand new room–full of spaceships and dinosaurs and hockey memorabilia. Every little thing a boy should have.

The room hits him with devastating force. She observes as his face falls sadly, unable to look away from the picture residing on the nightstand. Father and son, posing happily on the ice rink. Smiles light up the entire frame. He stares, unwavering, unblinking, and Brennan can only watch as the man she'd come to believe personified strength now looks as if he's just taken an excess of damaging, physical blows.

His expression is haunted, pained.

Booth feels her hand rest gently on his arm.

"Come on, Booth." Her voice sounds softly at his side, thick and laden with emotion. She's sorry.

Faltering slightly, he blinks, trying to erase the images from his memory. Clearing his throat, he gives a distracted nod. Her touch has yet to leave him as he turns away from the child's room. "Yeah," he whispers, following her out. His voice betrays the fatigue that's settling heavily over him.

* * *

After gassing up their vehicle–which involves siphoning it from the pump itself–they make a calming visit to Christine Brennan's grave. Eat their lunch at the Diner, head for the Lincoln Memorial.

She's set her laptop out on the steps, allowing it to replay their recording. Even after a year's time, he's still encouraged her to keep faith, to keep trying.

Now, the two of them toss a baseball back and forth atop the white steps. The dull thud of ball hitting mitt is the only sound that fills their ears. She laughs freely as she throws one over his head and he has to jump for it, nearly losing the ball.

She knows he'd be irked if he'd had to chase it down those steps. He chuckles and tosses it back at her, decent to not make her work for it. Brennan is not so forthcoming. She makes a mad dash for the top steps, the prize tucked safely in her mitt. She can hear his weak laugh far behind her. Determined, she refuses to give up there.

She needs her partner back. The fun-loving, energetic charmer who can make her smile even when she wants to cry. It's her turn now to do the cheering. To be the shoulder. Whirling, she jabs her tongue out at him, blows a raspberry for added trigger. Abandoning his gentle brooding, this is the only provoking he apparently needs.

She squeals as the distance between them is quickly erased by the bounding of his long legs up the steps. A further escape attempt proves futile as his arms close around her, hauling her back, their laughter mingling.

* * *

_My name is Seeley Booth. With me, is Doctor Temperance Brennan. We are survivors living in Washington DC. I am broadcasting on all AM frequencies. We will be at the Lincoln Memorial everyday at midday, when the sun is highest in the sky. If you are out there… if _anyone_ is out there… we can provide food. We can provide shelter. And we can provide security. _

Her voice adds to his promise.

_If there is anybody out there—_anybody_—please… you are not alone. _

* * *

_Hope is faith, holding out its hand in the dark._

-George Iles-


	13. These Whispers in the Dark

**Author's Note: Second chap up!**

**Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile! **

**

* * *

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**CHAPTER TWELVE**  
THESE WHISPERS IN THE DARK

*

_My love is just waiting to turn your tears to roses  
No, you'll never be alone  
When darkness comes I'll light the night with stars  
When darkness comes you know I'm never far_

_Hear my whispers in the dark_

-Whispers in the Dark-

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* * *

**_

August 16_**th**__**, 2010**_

"Booth!" exclaims his eager comrade, aiming a finger far before them down the absent street. Having just come from the lab, she's returned the treated solution back to her duffel and shouldered it once more. He glances up at her declaration, trained eyes following her discovery. "There," she directs, pointing just off his nose.

He hauls up his rifle, zeroing in through the scope in her decided path, scanning the area. Through the high-powered lens, he catches the passing flicker of a tail as the solitary deer disappears behind an eighteen-wheeler. A boyish excitement splits his previously lax face. "Alright," he affirms, grinning and holding up his fist. She complies, knocking it with her own. "Grab your six-shooter, Bones. Lock and load, baby."

Her cheeks glow appreciatively and she shifts her pack around, securing her own rifle so that it's snug against her shoulder. She follows after him past the remains of a fallen helicopter, aged with oxidation and flaking paint.

Here, they enter the labyrinth of abandoned vehicles strewn and occupying each lane. Shattered bricks and split concrete make up most of the pathway. Slanted street signs, crumbling edifices. Stop lights hang uselessly from their posts.

The entire block looks in ruin.

The stag has appeared to realize it's being followed, and quickens its leisurely pace. It snorts with concern, trotting hastily towards an old warehouse that occasionally would occupy the airborne sort in precarious shelter. Overhead, a congregation of seagulls squawk aimlessly, investigating the area for food.

Booth bounds nimbly up a taxi trunk, straight onto the roof, taking steady aim over the maze of autos. Losing the animal behind a humvee, he whistles at his partner, jerking his head to the side.

She issues him a quick nod, jogging around two jeeps and a city bus, preparing to head the creature off. He's swift to follow and steps off the roof onto the windshield, the glass spider-webbing loudly under his boot as he leaps off in pursuit.

A flash of gray-brown speeds past her line of vision. She quickly discards her pack for better mobility and chases after the retreating animal, rifle poised. Jumping over a fallen lamppost, she utilizes her footing to spring herself onto the box of a semi. Gripping the roof rail with one hand, she draws herself up in one adroitly facile maneuver. KV makes her more agile, gives her an edge. And as was expected, the field training Booth has been coaching her in–added to her own dexterity–is something to crow about. Not to mention that having a sniper-trained partner works wonders when tracking a moving target.

* * *

_She wants to learn._

_And so he teaches._

"_Now, your breathing is just as important as a level pulse rate, but there's something even more crucial than anything else I've taught you up to this point."_

_That is difficult for her to accept. For the past hour, he's been running her through multiple exercises to help her improve the two areas he's just cited, combined with judging wind velocity and distance calculation. _

_Two hours, everyday. This is what they do. _

_She knows he's not all that keen to train her like this. In how to take a life with such ominous skill and precision–in a manner that leaves a person an invisible shadow, a tool of destruction. She fears that if she causes one delay, he might abandon his lesson altogether with another "I'm your gun" speeches that leave no room for dispute. _

_She'd asked him once. Knowing how he despises this skill, this curse–_duty_–so much, why had he done it? Why exercise something that causes you such pain? "Why do it?" she'd asked. "If you hated it so much?"_

_His answer had been simple. Heavy. Maybe regretful, but all the same firm. _"_Because I have a gift." _

_A gift his country had needed. And so he'd served. _

"_What's that?" she voices now instead of any hindering comments. _

_They're both perched on an apartment rooftop, the healthy sunshine beating down on them lazily. Several makeshift targets dot the area far below. She's knelt at the ledge, positioned just as he's shown her, flaxen cheek pressed against cool steel._

_He hovers behind her in close proximity, chin brushing against her shoulder so that he can gaze with her through the large scope. _"_Focus your aim. The more you confine it, the more accurate your shot will be. The smaller the target, the lesser chance you'll leave for a bad shot."_

"_I don't follow," she says uncertainly. She knows that concentration is paramount, but what she doesn't understand is how to further that pinpoint accuracy. The deadeye skill he personally displays with envying proficiency. _

"_Don't aim for the heart." __She's about to protest, but he quiets her with an unguarded look. He's telling her these secrets. He's not holding back–because she's asked that he not. So she listens. Hangs on his every word. __He hasn't yet decided if that's a good thing or bad. _"_The center of the chest is a vague objective. You aim for that one loose thread on the breast pocket just over the heart. Same with a headshot. Instead of the forehead, you zero in on a skin blemish or a speck of dirt." His voice is cool, precise. "A single piece of hair. If you can eliminate it further, do it." _

_She shivers involuntarily. The clipped tone he executes his words with produces the effect. Sometimes, she forgets just how dangerous this man really is. _

_He can never teach her everything. A healthy portion of such a lethal talent is just that: talent. Not all of it is acquired, learned. For he is right._

_He has a gift. _

_The latent power was a part of him long before it had been called upon and examined. It's harnessed almost always, but can be unleashed in the blink of an eye, with devastating effects. Though she's eager to learn from him, Brennan wonders if she truly desires to know every dark secret of this gift he possesses. _

"_When the moment comes, you have to lose yourself." _

_She knows his words travel far deeper than any exterior or mental reference. This is something he'll never allow her to experience, not if he can help it. She is to be protected–from the deeper evil lying dormant. __Teaching her such a thing is playing with fire. And he's already sworn she will never be burned. Tainted, by this dark power that has broken him. _

"_Nothing else exists. Not me, not the wind, not sound. Tunnel vision, Bones. Embrace the silence."_

_So she does. Feels her focus shift with deadly preface through the high-powered scope. His voice in her ear becomes distant and weighed down. A brief fog settles in her ears. Only because she allows it to, calls on it. She draws a single breath._

"_Take the shot."_

_The sharp discharge is like a thunderclap. _

_The accuracy is impressive. A breath from perfection. A small tear in the paper target shows far below them. Three hundred feet is a humbly notable distance. Though, what he was accustomed to is nearly decupled to that. She knows that even from a broader distance, he could obliterate the target's innermost circle if he wants. She's nowhere near his skill._

_But still, he'd almost felt the impact of the bullet himself. His features are hollow, devoid of pride. He's glad she can protect herself if she must–if he's not there to do it. But the ache is no less, no less real. Painful._

_Over time, the more her aim improves, the more each shot she takes begins to suffer him with an almost physical illness._

_Sniper: killer from afar._

_She sees a shadow of pain race across his face, and then it's gone._

* * *

Taking immediate aim on the now sprinting stag, she fights to curb her disappointment as it ducks under a steel overhang, skids to a halt, and dashes into the unobstructed entrance of the warehouse. Into the darkness.

A disquieting sigh shudders through her as she lowers her weapon. Harsh unease settles over her thoughts. The poor creature doesn't deserve such an ugly fate. Off to her right, she hears Booth catching up from his more extensive route. Gauging the expression on her face, his broad shoulders slump. Lowering his rifle, he glances back at the warehouse before focusing his attention on her.

"You need help down?" he offers.

"No," she replies, squatting down and grabbing the rail again. She lowers herself carefully, minding her weapon until her feet touch the steel trailer below. He waits patiently close by, ever the partner willing to please, and makes sure she arrives at the ground safely. "I lost it in the warehouse," she mumbles distractedly, obvious defeat etched into her posture.

He nods in a vague but acknowledging way. Eyes roam her features as her expression eases back into serenity, but her face becomes too quickly shadowed by a wisp of hair that's fallen over her eyes as she bows her head.

He casts another onceover at the open gateway defaced by graffiti and carvings. "Not your fault." His need to keep her mood light withstanding, she throws a troubled pout his way. He merely chuckles, throwing an arm around her shoulders as they move. "Aw, come on, Pooky," he treats, charm smile in full effect. "No need to mope."

"Pooky?" She sends him a look of skeptical criticism, arching a sculpted brow in his general direction.

"Only trying to be cute," he reassures, slinging his rifle over his opposite shoulder. "Won't happen again. Hey," he hesitates and looks her over, "where's your pack?"

"Oh." She halts beside him. "I left it back a ways–over there." Turning and pointing, her features quickly twist into an expression of vehement disgust. "You can't be serious." A small congregation of seagulls have gathered curiously about the duffel they'd thought deserted. A couple peck away harmlessly at the seams, and another has its beak buried within, rummaging about. Brennan growls and sets her rifle on the hood of a car, whirling and swatting her comrade on the arm, who's begun to laugh. "Booth, it isn't funny!"

"Simmer down," he chuckles, eager to go scream at some birds. As he watches the object of his partner's grief, he briefly catches something about how her appreciation of nature has never extended to those 'airborne freeloaders'. "They can't hurt anything."

She isn't about to do any such thing as she watches the delving gull draw back with a plastic evidence bag between its upper and lower bill. Clearly attracted to the combined aroma of spaghetti sauce and fresh blood, it scuttles away, taking flight. "_Dammit!_"

Her sudden alarm quickly amends his erroneous assumption. Mirth dissipates. He immediately deposits his rifle and goes for the Glock at his thigh holster. "Easy, Bones. I got it."

A momentary flush of relief blossoms over her face as she watches her companion take steady aim. There's nothing to fear.

Both partners blanch as the gull flies into the broken second story window of the warehouse.

She gapes in abject shock, jaw pooling around her ankles. He watches the terror and denial fill her eyes. The two of them stand in stunned silence, rooted to the spot. But it doesn't last.

Discarding all rational thoughts of self-preservation, Brennan sprints for the side entrance the deer had fled through.

His face loses all color and he feels his heart slam up into his throat. "BONES!"

Sidearm forgotten, he races after her, fear digging its claws into him.

"No, _no!_" This becomes his mantra, and his lips repeat it over and over again in desperate command. Upon catching her, his arms lock around her from behind, hauling her back. She fights frantically against him, kicking her legs and screaming for her release. "Bones, stop!"

"Booth!" she cries in devastation, struggling with all her possible might. She's impressively strong for her size, but his guardian shield and obdurate will hold her back. Thwarting her every attempt.

She screams, begs.

She's desperate. So is he. His protective strength outweighs her own.

And she's left only to watch in helpless despair as their only possible hope disappears into a construct of their worst fears. In this, she sees the colors draining from the world as the very thing that could save him–cure him–is lost. "Let me go, _let go_! Booth, _please_!"

"_Dammit_ Bones, I need you! I need you here." The double-meaning in his words strike her full force. He punctuates them by bringing her cheek flush with his, holding her tight. He takes no pleasure in hurting her, denying her. The desperate pleas spewing from her lips break his heart. But his voice lowers, quiet yet firm beside her ear. Eyes wire shut, conveying, imploring her to understand. "I can't do it alone."

She blinks past the unshed tears that have gathered behind her eyes, feeling a fruitless sinking in her abdomen. Everything has been wasted then–all for nothing. The rats never live longer than a week, and Compound Six had been her godsend. "_No_…"

Slowly, he feels the ire drain from her. Her coiled muscles begin to slacken under his hold. "Calm down," he tells her gently. "It's gone."

"Please, Booth," she whispers pitifully, head lolling back against his shoulder, her voice a broken flutter in the silence.

"I'm sorry," he says, his shield quickly molding into an embrace. He holds her tightly, meaning every word. "God, I'm so sorry." Her knees start to buckle but his strong arms hold her upright against his chest. His face pulls away and she feels his forehead against her hair, bowed in apology. "Bones, I'm _sorry_." His eyes slide shut as he nestles his face closer against her. "I can't let you."

Her breathing is erratic, but he feels her nod against him, stifling a sob that threatens to escape. His grip relaxes. They stand there together, his arms entwined around her. Trying to convey his deep regret. He's sure in this moment she hates him.

He can live with that if he must. He can't live with her gone.

"I know," she breathes, and he can sense the anguished emotion as she says it. How much it hurts her.

He also catches the nuance of guilt in her voice. The change is infinitesimal. A warning caught too late.

"Don't follow me." She knows what must be done if she can ever fully save him.

Before he can question her, he feels her hands close around his forearm and suddenly he's flipping end over end. Having been thoroughly blindsided, the maneuver is flawless and he's rendered prostrate on his back with the breath knocked from him.

She takes the choice out of his hands.

Before he can register what's happened, she's disappearing, weaponless, into the shadowy abyss of the warehouse.

"_Shit!" _Panic seizes him.

Without another thought, he's on his feet, grabbing his rifle, and sprinting for the gateway. His own rational mind screams at him to turn back. Begs…

…is ignored.

His feet fly, facing clouding over. Aiming all directions within before entry, he makes an instant decision and steps through the opening where shadows swallow the light. Quickly, he switches on the flashlight of his rifle. The tool only provides a narrow beacon in the absolute darkness that opposes him. It illuminates the empty space ahead, reflecting splinters of light over patches of broken glass. He calls her name, a harsh whisper above the silence that beckons.

Swearing again, he takes another step, feeling his pulse pounding in his ears. His breathing is rapid, ragged. Teeth gritted. "Please, Bones…"

_This is bad, bad, bad…_

He shouldn't be here.

Seeley Booth is not afraid of many things. Nor does he scare easily. This is one of those anomalies. Feeling an unsettling tremor snake down his spine, he tries to ignore the way his hands shake as he takes yet another step. His fear for her wins out by a landslide.

Damn her.

_Of all the harebrained, idiotic…_

He adopts a careful pace, chest cramping with unease. He mentally goes over what he'll do to that goddamned bird once he finds it.

Passing through an unkempt hallway, light beam passing over the stained walls, his sensitive hearing is on high alert. Further through, he checks out a small room to his left. The light on his rifle only reveals a low-rent bathroom. His own reflection in the mirror gives him a start, but he otherwise maintains what little calm he's since upheld.

He fights to steady his respiration level as he comes around another corner, finger resting on the trigger. "Bones…"

Two more rooms, another corner.

A sudden, animalistic shriek breaks the dead quiet chased by a distant struggle. He feels his stomach lurch painfully at the notion that comes with the racket, heart rate spiking in alarm. Quickening his pace, he inhales slowly.

He feels the breath catch in his throat as he comes around the corner and sees the blood. It's pooled thickly on the floor ahead and smeared all along the wall. The light from his flashlight bounces off the surface and reflects towards the ceiling. He grips the rifle tighter, knuckles paling as a deep, inconsolable ache seizes his chest. There's so much _blood_.

Drawing slowly closer, he turns and follows the dark scarlet trail all the way up a flight of steps with his flashlight beam. The sounds of dripping water from leaking floors and pipes enters the back of his mind as he begins to ascend, unable to tear his worried gaze away from the red. Each creak of wood that sounds seems impossibly magnified and holds a twisted desire to haunt him.

As he follows the trail, he makes out a small shadow resting against the floor. The remainder of whatever it is hides within the room it juts from. He prays it's not a human hand, a beautiful human hand wrapped in pale flesh. Velvety soft to the touch, delicate and studious. With each step he takes, dread lies heavier and heavier upon him. He feels his heart twist viciously with fear. He closes his eyes, tears pricking at their corners.

_Please, no…_

As he approaches, he can begin to make out a more discernable silhouette. And finally, color and depth.

The snout of a deer.

His pulse flutters and a wave of temporary mitigation assaults him. He's gasping relief. But even still, she's no more found than she had otherwise been. "Bones," he calls again, too afraid to raise it above a whisper. If she's nearby, and not alone, he can't dare alert anything else that lingers in the vicinity. Once more, he comes around a corner, flashlight beam dutifully paving the way.

In the room: a small horde of the Infected.

With snapping reflexes, he brings the palm of his hand over the tool's face, dousing the light. Swearing inwardly, he spins and presses his back against the cold wall beside the room's entrance. Fights away the panic that pervades him.

Always a gambler at heart, he chances another look into the room, heart slamming against his ribs. Though standing, they appear to be at rest. At least twelve of them, formed in a huddle and facing each other. Their heads are bowed. Chests heave rapidly and without pause. Their adrenaline-packed veins pulse through the sickly, translucent skin under the tattered clothing they wear–if they wear any at all. Most of their attire hangs in ribbons over their shoulders and legs.

Forcing himself into a more composed state, he slowly begins to back away from the room, careful of his footing. Knocking against a discarded metal plank the light neglects, he cringes, squeezing his eyes shut. Once the dull clang fades, he moves on.

Finally clear, he finds himself in a large expanse. An open floor, cluttered with junk and useless scrap that threatens his upright posture with one false step. A surfeit of gossamer veils hang in languid fashion in each and every corner, dust brushing the tiny lattice work of cobwebs.

Suddenly, in the darkness, a sharp intake of breath perks his ears. He spins around, flashlight aimed. "Bones?"

His heart leaps. She's found. He's found her.

Under the white light of his searching, there she is. Squinting across the room, he sees her huddled under a large desk, a pistol she must have unknowingly had on her person now clutched tightly in her hand. In the fingers of her opposite hand is the serum. A busted lamp and stacks of muddled files litter the surface of the obstruction. Silence on her ears, except for the frantic beating of her own heart. Dread swamps her. Fear clogs her throat, making it difficult for her to breathe.

The naked terror in her eyes startles him. She isn't looking at him, though. He's located far to her right, while she stares straight ahead, lips parted around frantic breaths. Clear eyes are moist, dilated. She's paler than natural.

"Bones," he calls, moving closer. Still washed over with relief at the sight of her, unharmed. Carefully, he hefts his rifle to one arm, reaching out for her with his left, fingers outstretched. "Bones, come on," he urges quietly, a fracture to his voice. "Take my hand."

She can't look away from her point of attention. Now closer to her, he can see the unmistakable sheen of tears in her eyes. "Booth…" she whispers, so faint he doesn't hear, but rather sees his name form on her lips.

A shuffle behind him snares his attention. Blood freezes as he hears it again, the low rumble of a provoked predator. His stomach knots, plummets, a vice clamping around his throat and suffocating him with newborn dread.

His eyes flicker behind himself, straining to their limit as his neck turns barely a notch. His breath stops.

It's too late to slip away. Hopefully, he can get a shot.

Facing the inevitable, Booth finally whirls, aiming the beam of his rifle. The ferocious scream he's met with is deafening. The thing crouches under the light, baring its filthy teeth. All in less than a second, it leaps forward.

In one swift motion, he pulls her up and behind himself and begins unloading ammunition into the infected male host. It screeches as bullets slam into its torso and render it to the floor in a heap.

All around them, loud wails begin to echo throughout the warehouse in an emergent chorus. No longer do they sleep.

"Move!" He pulls her away from the fallen creature as the shrieks begin to close in around them. Doesn't need to tell her twice.

_Run_.

She keeps pace with him without any trouble, tearing forward, hand in hand. It isn't long before they hear the additional footfalls pounding against the grimy floor behind them. She grips his hand tighter, adrenaline pumping through her veins, flashlight leading the way. Her lungs burn with the intensity of the effort. Her trembling limbs are becoming taxed by the combination of fierce epinephrine and swelling fear. He squeezes her hand in urgency, encouragement.

_Keep moving._

In their mad race for freedom, he glimpses a shaft of light out of the corner of his eye. Far to their left. One of them will escape, and he knows which of them it has to be. "Bones–_go_! Go, get out!" he orders, shoving her towards the light.

She doesn't waste time arguing, but is no less sick to leave him. They both know he's undoubtedly too broad shouldered to fit through the small space. Stifling her gasping protest, she dashes for the light.

He presses onward, hearing the wails closing in, willing his strong legs to carry him faster. His heart beats madly, trying to keep oxygen flowing to his starved muscles.

At last, he can see daylight ahead. Willing himself one final surge of speed, boots pounding the hard floor as he sprints full out, he reaches what he'd so desperately sought. A microsecond later, he feels a steel grip close around his shoulder. The thing leaps on him.

He barely has time to throw his arms up to shield his face and, suddenly, they're crashing through glass and tumbling towards the street below. Himself, and three infected citizens.

Fighting to ignore the thing screeching in his ear, he grits his teeth and quickly maneuvers himself in the air, positioning the rabid mass beneath him as they plummet. Upon their violent landing, the screaming creature immediately releases him and begins to flail. Clutches at itself, moaning in agony under the sun's glowing light.

Booth scrambles away over the shards of glass, drawing a second pistol. His rifle lies just feet away from the three bodies. The other two are motionless, but the one to grab him bellows away. He assumes aim incase it poses any further threat and sees Brennan rushing for him out of his peripheral, her own pistol still drawn.

"Are you all right?"

She doesn't respond. His concern for her is evident and ironic to her, seeing as he should be concerned for himself.

The thing writhes and screams, banging its head on the ground repetitively until it's at last still. The body lay on its side, curled in a frozen echo of agonizing pain. Steam rises from it, blisters forming on the sickly flesh. Lowering his pistol, Booth releases the breath he hadn't realized he's been holding. He can't look away from the scene.

Feeling her heart pounding desperately, her mind reels with feelings and emotions. Clear in her mind with stunning intensity. She slides the gun back into the holster with more force than necessary, clearly indicating her unhappiness.

She's furious–_furious_–at him.

She shoves him, hard. He stumbles back in surprise.

"Idiot!" she accuses, eyes hard and penetrating. She attempts another assault, but he catches her arms and holds her back. "It's _my_ job!"

"_Our_ job, Temperance!"

"No! This isn't your cross, it's mine!" Emotion fills her once severe, angry eyes. "We make mistakes, people die!"

She knows they can't risk a life for only themselves–save only each other. It can't work. _Doesn't_ work like that.

"I'm always going to take risks for you, Bones! I'm not going to stand back and let you endanger your life for some tablespoon of rat blood!"

"I…" her throat catches, dry and raw. And she's looking at him. _Looking_ at him. He watches as the anger seems to slowly leach from her until she's colliding with him, wrapping her arms around his neck and clutching at him in relief, streaming out apologies. In their fraught embrace, he pulls the both of them away from the three motionless forms on the street. She draws back, looking him over, concern etched heavily on her face. "Are you hurt? Are you cut anywhere?"

Settling his nerves, he wordlessly shakes his head. Taking no chances, she inspects his face and hands, feeling for any sign of damage. Her fingers run swiftly and methodically over his shoulders, chest, and back in search of any abrasions in his coat. There are a minor few, but none reach his flesh.

"I'm okay," he says finally, assuring her. "I'm okay. Did you get it?"

Breathless, she nods. Her following expression is one of intense relief and she suddenly doesn't care about the serum, no matter what possible salvation it holds for him. Seeing him alive and breathing is so much more alleviating, she remembers this well.

Apologizing once more, she pulls him in again, hugging him tightly.

_Too close_, she thinks. _Too close. Too close. _

* * *

_Louder, louder, and we'll run for our lives  
I can hardly speak I understand  
Why you can't raise your voice to say  
To think I might not see those eyes  
Makes it so hard not to cry  
Have heart, my dear, we're bound to be afraid  
Even if it's just for a few days  
Making up for all this mess  
Light up, light up, as if you have a choice  
Even if you cannot hear my voice  
I'll be right beside you, dear_

-Run-


	14. For We Keep Memoirs of Hope

****

**Author's Note: Wowzers, I am really rifling 'em out!**

**Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile! **

* * *

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN  
**FOR WE KEEP MEMOIRS OF HOPE

*

_I am not a child now, I can take care of myself  
I mustn't let them down now, mustn't let them see me cry  
I try, but it's too hard to believe  
I can't see what you see  
My whole world is changing, I don't know where to turn  
But I can't stay and watch the sitting burn_

_I try and try to understand the distance in between  
The love I feel, the things I fear  
Now I have to believe all the world is made of faith_

-Jonatha Brooke-

* * *

Hunched over his work, he rakes his brown stare closely over the spread outlines strewn across the table's surface where he's seated. His left hand smoothes over the parchment, his right sketching over gridlines and markers with skilled ease. While he's no Angela Montenegro, his trained eye works wonders when constructing snares and tactical apprehension blue prints.

He hasn't seen or heard from her in quite some time. He's only assumed she'd disappeared into the basement to research the modifications tested on Compound Six while at the lab. Running a hand through his hair, he sets down the pencil. Knowing he can finish the project later, he rises in search of her.

If he's totally honest with himself, he has to admit he'd been scared out of his mind today. Despite her rash actions, despite what they'd been through, he wants her to know he's not angry. Frustrated, maybe, but she'd proceeded forward with all best intentions considered. The right reasons were evident. He knows she's not just thinking of him while formulating a cure for KV. It isn't really about either of them. It all rests on the fate of the world, and what remains of the human race.

Righting wrongs. This is what it comes down to. He's familiar with this, he knows her affliction. They have to press on. Retain hope, no matter how small a portion they possess.

The truth of the matter is that he _needs_ to see her, especially now. Be in her presence. He needs to know she's not still trapped back in that warehouse–maybe forever. And possibly consigned to a fate far worse than being lost.

Approaching the basement door, he hesitates. Hopes she isn't rightfully still upset with him for following her into that hellhole. He'd do it again, though. He'll brave her fury before suffering her pain.

Summoning the courage, he knocks softly. "Bones?" It's a while without response and he checks his watch. With only an hour or so left of daylight, he rules out her going for fresh air. They always give themselves at least an hour for preparation. Never stray outside–only for absolute emergencies. "Bones?" he calls again. He wanders the house, checking the rooms.

He's not concerned. On occasions when she gets caught up in her work, she sometimes forgets to reply.

When her office turns up nothing though, he tries to ease away the frown attempting to mar his face. Passing the bedroom, he falters in his tracks. Feeling his breath catch in calm surprise, he waits beside the doorframe, looking in.

Her back is to him, pale and bare. Gently caressed by the ends of auburn curls. Yes, he convinces himself. Her hair is definitely curled. The familiar "Roxie" dress swathes her slender form in black satin. Soft feet are naked against the white carpet, absent of heels. She's looking in the full-length mirror in front of her, but he can't see her face.

"Hey," he says softly. She gives no real acknowledgement of him, shows no reaction. Either she's mentally unconscious for the time present, or she'd already known he was there.

He feels a sad pang flutter in his middle when she finally turns and reveals the unhindered sorrow in her eyes. She is a picture of vulnerability. He's not certain he's ever seen her so exposed.

She doesn't say anything, but her sad blue eyes speak alone. Pour everything into his, moist and all the prettier in their sweet melancholy. They always give her away, the source of her every emotion. The truth can't be hidden from her gaze.

The silence draws out, and he's worried now.

"Bones?"

Something flickers behind the blue. "I'm sorry," she murmurs, the usual smokiness of her voice gone. He waits quietly for her to continue, his compassion and concern for her well-being evident in his eyes. After a moment of hesitation, she releases her question with all the muted strength of a sucker-punch to the gut. "Do you ever get lonely, Booth?"

The pang grows to a sympathetic ache at the devastation in her voice, merging almost immediately with his own. Parting his lips to speak, his voice catches in his throat. He does. All the time. She goes on as if from his own thoughts.

"There's no one."

He approaches her with a dismal nod. He understands. Feels her heartache, knows it well. "I know what you mean," he gently shares.

She looks down, considering this. The curls curtain her face, obscuring her from his view. Before he can stop himself, he brushes it back behind her ear. Clear eyes dart to his, slightly guarded, but she doesn't move away. Lashes brush the skin below her lids.

"I never thought I'd miss the noise. The day to day lives we all partake in. The people you pass on the street, or sit by on the shuttle." She shakes her head, looking away. "I never knew them. And now I'll never have the chance. Their lives were stolen. They're gone…" as she speaks, she tries to hide the break in her voice, but fails to contain her grief. "But I'm still here. Spending their lives."

"Bones…"

"They're lives were lost because of me, Booth." Her voice gains little strength, but just enough to counter him. "You can't repudiate fact."

He accepts this because it's what she wants. Anything for her. He'd given testimony that she could murder a man in cold blood–it had killed him to do so–he can allow her to accept blame if she must. "You're going to fix everything, Temperance." He means this, believes it. She will. She's strong, and he has faith in her.

Her voice is small. "I don't know if I can." The smallest he's ever heard it, and emotion contorts the words. "I'm not this sort of scientist. I–I'm not certain of the process or what I'm even doing. I need Hodgins… Cam… they could…"

"They're not here, Bones." The firmness of his voice is softened by regret and shared misery. He misses them, too. But they're _not_ here. She is. She'd been right about that. The world needs her, no matter how empty it's become.

Wavering, the words sink slowly in before she gives a small, accepting nod.

"Is this about what happened today?" he asks carefully, after giving her a moment.

"No," she denies weakly, but closes her eyes in time with a helpless shrug. "Maybe. I don't know. I don't know anymore." Her voice is so faint, he questions whether she's really speaking. It disturbs him, this weak creature assuming the guise of his partner. It isn't her, what's happening here? Almost immediately, he's flooded with a fierce need to protect, comfort, shield her with his arms. Make the monsters go away.

Still, he nods calmly. Surveying her once more, he hesitates before voicing his original question. "How come you're wearing…" he trails off, not sure how to continue.

Under her lashes and the stray curls framing her fair appearance, he catches the sad smile that ghosts across her bare lips. "I miss what we were," she confesses. Her voice is thick with the reverie of recalling scattered memories. "I'd never thought my life was perfect until I look back on it now." He waits, hoping she'll go on. She doesn't disappoint. "When I do remember, I suppose that's what gives me hope. But even with that, I can't avoid the hurt that comes with it. I just want to go back–to when everything was simple. Us and the squints." A smile flickers, wider than before, and he finds himself smiling too despite the sting developing behind his eyes.

He feels this. Knows this. And, for a moment, he's back in time with her.

"You'd saunter into my office uninvited, tossing something around. And you'd smile," she whispers. There's sadness and there's contentment at the memory. "You were always smiling. _We got a case, Bones_."

He swallows past the lump that forms in his throat, waiting for her to go on. He laughs silently though, and remembers. Memories bring back the pain and tears, but sometimes it's well worth the agony. She's right. It can bring you hope.

"I miss being able to smile, without pretending that everything is okay," the last word is strained, and she sighs past the sob that tries to escape. She forces it back, a will of ice. He takes her hand in comfort and though his touch brings everlasting security, she can't help but yield to the emotion that's been building inside her. All for too long. She needs a respite. Her shoulders slide forward an inch, the weight of the world inching down. "Everything's different," she shakes her head, feeling a single rebellious tear fall. "Everyone is gone."

"Hey," he prods gently, discovering his voice at last. His fingertips find their way under her chin, raising her eyes to meet his. The clear radiance binds his heart, but also gives him insight to her suffering. She looks no more than a child when she lays bare her heart, letting the tears show and gazing up at him like he's simply everything. Being wanted was always nice, but being loved was something immeasurable. Though he's physically stagnant and grounded, internally he's soaring.

_Believe, _he tells her.

His eyes are so appropriately suited, she finds. She'd realized towards the beginning that when her world is breaking, she need only find those eyes and those arms. Her first instinct is always–had always been–to run to him. They are such like a fading dream, the perfect instant between sleep and awareness, lulled into lasting comfort. When all her faith is lost, his eyes alone restore every fragment. She wants to know what he knows, believe what he believes. She wants that faith. Needs it.

So she tries.

Under his gaze, she feels… important. She can sense his faith in her and it's uplifting.

Stable, reliable. It's him.

"_I'm_ here," he says, and she can hear the underlying promise in his voice.

She feels the familiar warmth associated with all things Seeley Booth blossom in her chest. Through her tears, a smile is born. Her curls dance about her face as she gives him a small nod. "You're always here."

He opens his arms, inviting her into his embrace. Tired and weary, she accepts. Falls into him with a sigh. His sturdy arms wrap around her, stabilizing and comforting all at once. She breathes deeply, body relaxing. "Always," he echoes.

Her eyes slide shut, at peace. "I haven't cried in a while," she admits.

"You don't have to be tough for me, Bones," he encourages softly, the feel of her curls against his face bringing him a perfect calm. She needs this, so he holds her.

The tremors are so soft at first he's not sure if he's imagining them. She breathes a grateful exhale–somewhere between a laugh and a sob, hugging him tighter. Finally cleansed of her self-conscious disposition.

The collar of his shirt begins to dampen. "I haven't gotten all pretty for so long," she sniffs. She's spilling everything to him, now. "There just hasn't been a reason to. I didn't think I enjoyed it until I never had the opportunity."

He expels a tranquil sigh, hand massaging soothing circles over her back. "You don't have to have a reason," he proposes with gentle honesty. "Can't it just be because you want to?"

She considers this. "I suppose," she tentatively agrees. "I just… you start to miss the things you once took for granted. I mean, I haven't seen the stars for almost a _year_."

He's grateful they have one another. Here, now. Always. That they can stand here in the silence and grieve. Grieve with the knowledge that they aren't grieving alone. If he's expected her to break down, though, he's disappointed. She'd proven in the past to be a silent sufferer–emotionally torn, but never breaking. He doesn't know if he should be thankful for this or frustrated that she isn't doing herself the favor of letting go.

"Thinking about those things… I start to feel the quiet. When I can't think of anything to say, and when I can't think of anything to think about. I guess a person starts to really listen. You begin to notice just how empty the world truly is."

Her words ring true to his own state of mind. The vulnerability and the pain he's sought so desperately to keep from her. Staring out at no real point of focus, he hears everything she says. Experiences it as if it's his own despair. For truly, it is.

The silence sometimes deafens him. Occasionally, it grew to be so loud it threatened his own breaking point. But he holds on, remains steady. For her.

He can't fail her. It's unacceptable.

"You do start to notice," he says quietly, an underlying fracture to his usually strong voice. "It's a sad reality. But what's important is that you keep hope. And we try. We keep trying to change the world. Make it what it used to be. Or something new, better."

She closes her eyes, clinging tightly to his strong form. Joyful through her tears, she marvels at his grace. His utter desire to put others before himself. Even if he no longer believes–he'll always make sure that she does.

_Paladin._ Defender of the faith.

"You're my Peter Pan," she tells him quietly.

She can hear the surprised smile in his voice. "You know _Peter Pan_?"

"Second star to the right," she whispers, smile bending her lips in the tiniest of ways. "Straight on 'til morning." Despite the way it brightens their faces, she's sorry she'd said it. Peter and Wendy never got their happy ending. In the end, the boy always left. She hopes they can write their own story. Childish as it may seem.

She sniffs again, soothed by the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek.

"You're wonderful." And she means it. He is truly everything, truly magnificent.

His smile fades as something deeper, more powerful, weighs on his heart. He closes his eyes, concentrating on her closeness, reveling in it. It pacifies him, draws away the emotional poison he's plagued by.

"Why are you so nice to me?" She means it this time, truly. She needs to know.

She feels him chuckle, and he smoothes a hand over her curls. "I thought we solved this one already?"

"Back then you were only withholding evidence to spare me. Not killing your own men in side street standoffs and betraying the country you love."

Suspended silence stretches on before he clears his throat, _hmphing_ a short laugh to disguise his avoidance. He gives her a gentle pat on the back, stalling if he can. "Felt like the thing to do. You feel better?" His interest in her answer is genuine. And he's convinced she knows why he does the things he does–sacrificed what he had to. Even if she doesn't know for certain, he's willing to bet she holds the correct suspicions.

He'd declare war against the planet if she were to ask him. He just isn't ready to say it aloud. Perhaps he is a coward.

"I do." Her reply is honest. "_Thank you_." She smiles against him, giving him a mirrored caress on his shoulder. "What about you?"

"I'm okay," he brushes off. He knows it's weak. He knows she doesn't believe him but maybe she'll move on.

But she's too devoted for his lame excuses. "No man is an island, Booth."

"…I know…" It's a mumble, a whisper. He thinks it's enough. "But I'm… I'm fine. Really."

She doesn't accept it. He's too good a man. His pain should not be forgotten. Neglected. And she hates that he makes her do this to him. Her lightness fades, and blue eyes adopt a sadness. Closing them, she allows herself to assume a more gentle hold around him, softening the blow.

"Parker."

The effect is immediate. He tenses in her arms, cotton shifting to stone. Silence, but when his weak voice, suddenly tainted by unshed tears, severs the newborn quiet, it wounds her. She can feel his armor starting to crack. "Please, don't."

She's sorry. Letting the moment linger as long as he'll allow, she finally nods against him. Accepting his unwillingness. He isn't going to divulge any more information, so she abandons the subject. Although his relief is immense, the sense of loss is overwhelming as well.

He's failed her and it sickens him. It's not fair and he knows it. But it _hurts_.

She understands, though. She's failed him, too. She hadn't let go when he gave her the opportunity. He'd offered her solace, but she'd remained where she was comfortable. Stayed with what she knows.

He'll open up to her when he's able. If doing so will only break him further, she's more than willing to wait until he's ready. "Okay," she says, pulling away and looking up at him in earnest. "When you feel up to it." She provides him the opportunity.

His expression is serious, but a grin slowly spreads across his lips. It doesn't reach his eyes, but it's something. "You're not going to throw me down again if I don't, are you?" he mutters impishly.

A husky laugh, quiet and calm, abruptly escapes her. Her eyes twinkle and tease. "You're only offended because you were taken down by someone half your size."

"Try blindsided, Bones," he snorts, amused. He appreciates the insertion of humor. It eases the ache, and he's grateful. "I'll have you know, I'm a trained weapon."

The mirth still dances over her face, but a glimmer of solemnity crowds it momentarily. "I know," she nods. It's muted, but there. And she does know. His eyes watch her carefully, and words are passed between them. Language that only they know.

He can count on one hand, the people who have ever gotten the drop on him. Two of those spots belong to her, the second tallied at the warehouse. The first at his funeral.

_I let my guard down because I trust you. _This is what his eyes, his expression, tells her. To feel anything other than trust in association with her is absurd to him. Unimaginable.

_I'll always be there to make sure you're glancing over your shoulder, _she returns. Lashes flutter. Her head bows. _No matter how objective I try to remain, you're always first._

Always her priority.

What embarrasses, what shames her is simply fact. The rest of the populace is gone, lost. He's not. She's not prepared to sacrifice him, or allow him to let himself to be sacrificed. For the greater cause, or any cause. She needs him here, too. Needs him.

_I need you. _

It's swimming in her luminous eyes before she can stop it. His breath catches, barely noticeable. Floored by the intensity behind her gaze. For a moment, it's too much for both of them.

_Next time I'll be more careful, _he silently promises.

And then it's gone–back to what they can handle. "What weapon are we discussing?" she gently goads. "A caveman club?" The somberness is gone, and timid mirth takes its place.

She squeals as his hands creep lower down her sides, ready to launch a devastating tickle attack should she push her luck. She resists and he laughs, though it doesn't hold the usual warmth. He's tired, too. He glances at the clock to their right. "You want something to eat?"

She shakes her head, thankful though for his offer. "I'm not hungry. But I should shower, though," she smiles sadly. "Wash out these curls."

"No," he disagrees before he can seal his lips around the protest. Nevertheless, a kindness fills his eyes. "Leave them." With a shrug, he clears his throat, the corners of his mouth bending slightly. "They're nice."

Her smile grows, if a little shy, and she nods. "Okay," she cedes quietly, ducking her head somewhat. "I should still bathe, though. We got in a lot of exercise in today."

"Yeah…" The word is not even a whisper. It's lost in the air. His thoughts draw the smile from his mouth. Summoning his composure, he nudges her chin with somber affection. "Can't go running into the dark, dummy."

It's quiet and heartfelt. He's afraid for her all over again. He wills the feeling to fade. Doesn't want to discomfort her with the blatant sentiment that fills his eyes.

But she understands. Giving a discreet nod, she steps away and moves to walk past him. He hesitates, but catches her hand, holding her back. At first, she gives him a questioning look, but relaxes instantly as he pulls her back into his arms. He needs to feel her again–if only one more time before the sun goes down. He speaks softly into the auburn cushion of her hair. "Things will get better, Bones. I promise you."

She blinks rapidly, lashes fluttering at the contact, the words in her ear. "I want to believe you." And she does. She wants to feel what he feels. That sureness. "I really do."

"In order to appreciate the high points in life, we have to live through the lows."

His words mean everything. She _believes_.

She feels safe. _Loved_.

And she's scared. Scared of what this means. Coming from him, coming from Booth. She remembers that this is Booth. Hesitating, she reconsiders, original fears evolving into something more–something less frightening.

It's _Booth_. This means everything.

She sighs against him, overcome with a bittersweet warmth. Even though they share each other's company, they are never really together. They're present in the other's lives, and offer comfort and companionship, but they can never be more. They can never be truly connected. Sometimes, that makes his presence all the more painful.

He's only a vision to her. She can never touch. Never experience. How could she explain to him that the line meant to keep them safe–_him_ safe–is breaking her to pieces? The loneliness could be suffocating. Especially when the only person alive–your truest friend and something more–cannot be yours.

She hadn't realized just how much she truly longed for him until the moment she'd learned she could never know his love. Even the feather light touch of her lips on his is too much a risk. She could very well be giving him the kiss of death. Though unlikely, she knows what consequences will quickly follow.

Every day, she lives with the knowledge that he can never be hers. And she can never be truly his.

But she has hope.

In her lonesome, running thoughts, she wonders when it happened. That moment–shared between them in mutual understanding. When had she known? What had triggered this slowly building bond? What was the point of epiphany? The moment of clarity? One could assume during or immediately following a high risk experience. The combination of adrenaline and frantic emotions–life and death situations often brought out the truth in social creatures.

But no. This time, logic is mistaken. And in admitting that, she's able to accept her feelings at last–no matter the boundaries needing set.

The best loves are the ones you can't name the beginning of.


	15. A Hindsight that Kills

******Author's Note: Apologies in advance for the sadangst!chap.**

**Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile! **

* * *

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN  
**A HINDSIGHT THAT KILLS

*

_You know where I lie, gently I go into that good night  
Never armed our souls for what the future would hold  
When we were innocent_

_Angels, lend me your might  
__Forfeit all my lives to get just one right  
__This prayer is for me tonight_

-Innocent-

* * *

_It doesn't take him long to find her. Only her does he see and perceive. __A tremor rocks his form. And he knows it's not from the tame autumn chill. _

_How had it come to this? _

_His lost angel. And she'd trusted him. _

Necessary_, a voice whispers in his ear. The chain of his St. Christopher's medal feels hot around his neck instead of cool. _

_He doesn't deserve to grieve. He'd made a choice–dared to tempt fate. The decision is not his to suffer. Nevertheless, he feels a freezing pain wash over him when he realizes what he must do._

_Her guardian reaper. There is something tragically poetic about it. Sometimes, a single life can save countless innocents... _

_A sea of auburn fills his scope. _

Are you going to betray me?

_Lethal precision. And she's gone. _

_He's frozen in place, reality hasn't found him yet. He doesn't hear the screams, doesn't see the fleeing crowd. Brown eyes are locked on fallen angel. Far below him, lifeless and still. Rain kissing her face and hair, molding to her cold skin. The universe blinks, weeps, stutters. Falls still._

_With a single bullet, he's literally broken her heart. _

_He doesn't see the field officers calling in the successful hit. Doesn't feel the rain. It's freezing now, a bitter cold. He shivers in silence, staring. Utterly lost. __Paralyzed._

_And then he knows. Suddenly he's all too aware. _

_Bones is dead. _

_His muscles numb instantly, fingers slacken. Hold slips. __His rifle teeters on the ledge, helpless without his grasp. A second later, the weapon is plummeting for the earth, falling with the rain. The metal discharges on impact, scatters apart in a great crash the moment he falls to his knees on the roof. _

_Bones is dead. Gone. Never to see those eyes again. _

_His back meets the short wall, and he's locked on the sky. Rainwater beats against his face. His lungs suffocate instead of benefit him. He chokes on a sob, curls in on himself. Trembles, chokes, gasps._

_Bones is dead. Because of him, because of _him_. Fifty-eighth kill. _

_Dead, dead, dead, _dead_…_

_His eyelids fuse together and he lets out a wretched cry. And he is in agony. A thousand knives tear into him from every angle. Head bent low, he releases scream after bloody scream, tears pouring down his face to be swallowed by the rain. His full-throated shouts echo against the storm, in spite of it. __He bows over, head on his knees, expelling absolute grief. Hands curl into fists at his sides. He mourns, severe and broken. _

_And the storm intensifies. _

_Can't win now. Can't. Nothing can be erased. He can't stand it, can't go on but, dammit, he will. For his son, if no one else. He'll eat at the diner alone. Gaze longingly at the empty passenger seat in his Tahoe, a burning ache in his heart. Still feel her phantom presence everywhere. An echoing reminder, haunting him. _

_Missing her. _

_But he'll be alone, waiting for someone who will never come. Waiting. _

_Forgiveness has always been a gray area to him–never certain if he could possibly atone. There were times, with her, in her presence, that he believed. Believed in miracles. _

_But now it's impeccably clear. He's erased that clouded line with one pull of the trigger. __He'll never forgive himself. God shouldn't, either. _

_Knees are now forever bloody. _

* * *

Her name claws its way up his throat. There's no release, he's out of breath.

He gasps and it's a hollow sound. Tears coat his angled cheekbones. He's shaking, hurting, terrified, desperate. Seconds pass like decades, he's hyperventilating. Neck jerking to the left, his eyes finally fall on her sleeping form across the divide. Her ribcage slowly expands with each peaceful breath. He doesn't want to look away, wants to drink in the sight of her–_alive alive alive_, but he's going to be sick.

He stumbles into the bathroom and rubs his face vigorously with cold water, trying to force down the bile in his throat. The nausea he's tamped down rises up uncontrollably. He retches into the sink until he's dry heaving. A thousand vices wrench at his chest, his heart, and he's in physical pain. Still gasping for breath.

_Get a grip. Calm the hell down, you'll scare her._

He forces his hands to stop shaking, clutches the porcelain edges, knuckles white, not daring to look into the mirror. It's early morning he knows, and the sun has yet to break the horizon. The faraway, dwindling calls of the Infected haunt him, remind him. But he'll gladly choose Them over the alternative.

He won't go back to sleep.

* * *

She'd heard him in the bathroom, heard his tears.

It's on ground level where she finally finds him, sweat molding his shirt to his back. His tense shoulders telegraph his awareness of her presence. The punching bag shudders beneath the insistent battering of his fists. Unrelenting, unremitting. Slamming, driving, needing to strike something.

Silently, she watches him battle an opponent she cannot see.

When she can no longer stand the silence, she steps up behind him. Speaks his name softly.

His arms still and he exhales, head bowed. "Go back to sleep, Bones." It isn't bitter or demanding. It's quiet, subdued. He's browbeaten and emotionally exhausted. He can't look at her without seeing her through a scope.

Gently, she touches his bare shoulder, conveying strength if he'll accept it. She nods, and he doesn't need to see it to know she understands–respects his wishes, the need for her to leave.

He hears her drift back up the stairs. The Infected have gone, and so has she. His son is gone. The world is his to bear, too. She isn't totally alone in blame. While Atlas is away, Hercules suffers the agonizing weight alone.

He chokes again, collapsing against the heavy bag, cries muffled by the rough fabric.

* * *

He can't stay away from her for long.

Always magnetized to her presence, since day one.

She awakes in darkness, a solid shaft of light protruding from the partially ajar barrier over the window. He looks out through the space, away from her, but not. Drawn face is bifurcated by light and shadow. His back is a solid column, shoulders straight and severe. But his head hangs in a picture of discouragement. She watches his solitary reflection in the window–what she can see of it. Leaning against the glass, he massages his temples with his free hand. She knows, if only a little, his eyes search out the lights of the Capitol buildings. It's always bothered him that they no longer shine. The sight had once brought him small comfort on nights when sleep eluded him.

She finally asks him what he'd dreamt.

He's silent, and for a while, she feels the suffocating disappointment that he won't answer, won't let her in. But his head tips a fraction in acknowledgement.

"I killed you."

The three small words break his voice, barely steady to begin with. She watches an almost indiscernible shudder race through him. Shoulders hunch further in shame. Desolation. This is all he says.

Years spent making people talk for a living and he never says anything in return. Still doesn't confide in her. He's miserable with himself. She deserves better than what he's made of.

* * *

The morning breaks and the sun fills the sky. Warms the kitchen in which they stand. Breakfast is finished, and he's cleaning off the table. He's never this quiet and it disturbs her. She doesn't like it. Her breaking point is near as she recognizes the soul-deep weariness in his eyes–a glimpse of him he almost always keeps hidden from her.

It's something. Yet all the same, nothing.

He's bringing the plates to the sink when she stops him. She knows he's hiding. Won't stand for it anymore. She wants to see that goofy, wide grin on his face. Maybe she's selfish for it.

She blocks his path, looking him squarely in the eyes. He looks so exhausted. The shadow on his jaw pushes ten o'clock by now. His eyes are heavy, but he doesn't break her gaze. "Just tell me what you need," she says finally, at long last. She tries to quell the begging tone, but it's too much. "Please, Booth. Let me help you."

The inner struggle is rampant behind his dark stare. A flicker of doubt. He doesn't look away though, and she rejoices. He swallows hard, knowing he has to offer up a piece of himself. She needs this and so does he. God, but it _hurts_.

"Okay," he says timidly.

And suddenly... the world is a less crushing force.

"Can I… can I just hold you, Bones?" his voice is quiet, small, but laden with surging emotion. He fears her reaction, his own weakness.

She smiles, bittersweet in feeling, and takes his hand. She's glad of this. Proud of him. "Of course," she assents. She settles into his arms, and a great weight dissolves from his shoulders. He holds himself stiffly at first, feeling the despair and grief overwhelming him. The image of her ruined grace left motionless on the sodden earth burns into the backs of his eyes. He needs that picture to go away. "You are _wonderful_," she repeats herself from the day before, exuding confidence and mercy. She never says what she doesn't mean. "I'd never doubted you. I knew you were doing what had to be done. I forgive you. So please, start forgiving yourself. It's unpleasant for me to see you suffering. It hurts me."

"Are you sure?" Gone is the laughter and charm he usually dons like full-body armor, soldiering on no matter how hard getting up in the morning is for him, leaving in their place a wrenching vulnerability.

"I absolutely am. You're a good man, a beautiful person. I want your strength."

He breathes deeply, her touch rubbing soothing circles over his back, erasing the tension coiled there. Soon, everything is gone except the feel of her body in his arms.

It's a nice feeling. And he's relieved. The danger, the hurting, isn't gone yet, but he's open now to a more hopeful future. The one he's always convincing her exists.

He starts to sob. Let's go for the first real time, and all that dark energy begins to leach from him. She's rocking him like a child and he starts to laugh because it's ridiculous, because he doesn't care. The laughter melds with the tears, and he's crying harder. No longer does he feel like Atlas, that burden begins to lift. They're the outcasts of the myth: instead of handing off the earth when the weight becomes too overpowering, they'll share it. Finally, he's able to breathe again.

It's a nice feeling.

* * *

_How can I brace myself for razor blades on whips  
When everything with meaning is s__hattered, broken, screaming?  
__And I'm lost inside this darkness and I fear I won't survive  
__I wish you'd see me, save me, I'm going crazy__  
Love me in this fable, my heart is in your hand  
And maybe tomorrow is a better day_

-Poets of the Fall-


	16. A Gauntlet is Thrown

****

******Author's Note: Onward, children! Should be able to get another chap up today, too. I'm onna roll. **

**Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile! **

* * *

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN  
**A GAUNTLET IS THROWN

*

_I've got this feeling that there's something that I missed  
Something happened that I never understood  
Every second, dripping off my fingertips_

_Wage your war  
Another soldier, says he's not afraid to die  
A clock is ticking, but it's hidden far away_

-Somewhere a Clock is Ticking-

* * *

**  
**_**August 18**__**th**__**, 2010**_

_Shunk!_

The bolt slams out of the barrel, biting deeply into the concrete floor. Particles of dust rise in a flurry cloud, swirling, caressing the atmosphere, only to settle a second later. Reaching down, Booth takes up the nearby cable lying harmlessly slack in his fingers and slips the eyehook over the bolt.

At the dark entrance of the warehouse, he billows a heavy black canvas, stretching it carefully across the air. It floats down over the contrivance he's just set. Brennan works beside him after he's finished, stringing the cable through measured links in the fabric. Draws out a healthy sized loop at the very end and hands it off to her partner. She watches as he hauls back and hurls it high above them until it cascades across the brick overhang. Onto the bridge that stretches over the doorway.

She waits for him while he scales the structure and chooses his counterweight. The backend of a rusted old transport trailer slowly peeks over the edge. Its only two wheels roll over the shelf until its cable pulls taut over the bolt, groaning its strain.

Squirting the neutralizing fluid over his jacket he's laid out on the ground and hers, he casts a glance her way. She stands near to the truck, recovering a small kit out of the glove compartment. She's unusually quiet today. Clearing his throat a little louder that casual, he shrugs a shoulder. "Totally foolproof, Bones. Trust me."

Her head turns and her eyes fly to his. "Don't say that," she chides him, concern making her brow knit together.

He tosses her a smile. "Why, or I'll jinx it? Yeah, that might be a problem if it weren't entirely foolproof. Measure twice, cut once."

"The _Titanic_ was said to be unsinkable," she reasons, giving him a stern look. "See what arrogance got them?"

A drawn-up eyebrow from him. An answering frown from her. He marvels again at the effortlessness of their unspoken communication.

Grinning, he tosses the jug of scent-b-gone into the back seat. "_God couldn't sink this ship_. Isn't that what they said? Claiming something like that?" He shrugs, eyes wide. Brow climbing into his scalp. "Just looking for trouble."

She rolls her eyes at him, turning away. "Taking your approach into consideration, why wasn't the speaker simply struck by lightning?"

He frowns at her little jab, but leans against the vehicle next to her, crossing his arms over the black t-shirt he wears. Heaves a sigh. "Less poetic, maybe."

She's barely heard what he's said. Her focus is too entirely drawn to the small case in her hands. Braves the inevitable. Opening the lid, she runs her fingers over the syringe. She hates this. A nagging fear settles in her middle that she wishes would go away. Fleetingly, she wonders why he's impervious. Gaze falling momentarily upon him, she considers this. True, he's a strong man–a good immune system, no doubt. She knows that if she were to ask him, he surely won't know. Still… she can only speculate. Perhaps there's a reason it's just the two of them.

Partners. They needed each other. Could survive together.

_A miracle? _she's tempted to wonder.

She looks away. Though the very idea is illogical, the gentle comfort it brings she can't ignore. He's told her everything will be okay. She has to believe him. Trust him. She does, implicitly.

Taking a short breath, she's ready. He reaches over and takes the waiting syringe from the case, sighing resolutely. "Today, Seeley Booth plays the bait," he comments with an air of regret. Making a fist with his left hand and keeping his elbow relatively straight, he poises the needle over his skin.

He hesitates though when her hand closes over his. "Let me," she says softly. He meets her eyes, wordlessly conveying his calmness and surety to her. Nods, finally. She procures the tool from his fingers and gently takes his forearm in her left hand. With the other, she carefully presses the needle into the soft skin of his inner elbow.

She watches sadly as the tiny cylinder slowly fills with his lifeblood, the deep red stark against the rather colorless day.

Finally obtaining as much needed–any of him sacrificed is too much–she withdraws, separating the capsule from the syringe. Massaging his arm briefly, he bends down and scoops up his jacket, shrugging into it. He hands the other to her. "Ready?"

Feeling herself nod, she reaches out to him, touching his arm. "Be careful," she insists, blue eyes sincere and resolute. Her voice betrays the fear for him.

He mirrors her gravity. "I will." Something in her eyes reveals the hesitation and he catches it. Holds it, placates it. "Look, Bones–really. You and me both, we'll be out of harm's way and safe in the light. I'll stay back a ways, and you can be the one to play whack-a-reaver. I'll have your back. Okay? I'll be careful, I promise."

Despite the dreary situation, she feels herself smiling at his words. He really needs to stop referencing pop culture. At least now she gets most of what he says. "Alright." She accepts her jacket from him, slipping it over her shoulders comfortably. He issues her an extension of his patented charm, nudging her easily as they make their way back to the entrance.

"No worries, Super-Squint."

* * *

Passing under the crane arm stretching above them–acting as a specific center of gravitational pull–she takes position atop the hood of a BMW. Shifting the weight of her rifle for better leverage, she observes him approach the yawning entrance of the warehouse. Crouching down, he underhands the tubule of blood forward, watching it roll to a stop within the snare's catch. Palming his rifle around and taking a step further, searching the shadows, he brings the butt end sharply down. The capsule shatters, dark liquid seeping into the black fabric around the cable.

He moves away and she exhales the breath she'd been holding. She grips her weapon tighter in disquieting anticipation as he stands a short distance to her right and back.

Now, they wait.

Keeping her focus strictly on the dark entryway looming straight ahead, she hears him draw the bolt back on his rifle in guarded preparation. They're both alert, and the background noises dissolve from their minds. A light breeze picks up, lifting a few auburn strands across her eyes, but she doesn't move to brush them away.

He's teaching her–everyday it's something new she learns. As a sniper, his patience extends almost infinitely. He shows her how to keep her breath even, her pulse down, and her hands calm. No longer do her investigative hands quiver with a scientist's precision or a huntress's thrill. He shows her how to keep them steady.

Little by little, she's learning by him. She recalls her close studies of her partner. Whenever he works, or when he hunts, his hands are the stillest tools she's ever seen. She's all too happy to be taught. And the apprentice slowly becomes like the teacher. They become–she blinks in distraction–one. She pushes the inviting thought away.

It often holds the same results when reversed. Despite his backward tendencies toward anything technological, she often recalls pleasurable sessions over her laptop, challenging the other over defending titles when their entertainment habits called for a fresh change in routine. When she confronts him with an arched brow and a game of computer solitaire, he'll sometimes laugh and wave _Halo_ or _Crash Bandicoot_ in her face. Often times they engage in playful combativeness over the Xbox wired to the bigscreen in their living room.

She'll submit him to lectures on Bandicoot's subtle relevance to mythology, and recite persuasive articles on theorized alien life. She pretends to be largely oblivious to his discomfiture and desire to just collect his crystals or shoot the bad monsters. Eventually she relents and appeals to his competitive streak instead, stealing all his fruit and weapons.

But whenever she asks, he's playing _Tetris_ with her on her laptop. She'll silently pout whenever he's triumphant over her, and on growing occasion when she were to defeat him, he whines like some giant toddler. She can think of nothing better.

A dull scratch in the shadows of the warehouse seizes their interest. Hugging her weapon tighter, she stills–just as he's taught her–and waits. Behind her, Booth shifts, keeping his rifle poised and at the ready.

A muffled footstep echoes within the darkness, then silence.

With a sharp snap, the snare catches. The trap sprung.

Away and parallel to them, a heavy metallic moan resonates as the suspended trailer begins to plummet toward the street. It smashes through a delivery truck windshield. The black canvas whooshes as it wraps around its prey and shoots into the light.

The infected host, screaming its protests in shrill potency, is pulled–encompassed by the protecting fabric–into the day. Speeding across the line of cable, slamming into indiscriminate vehicles hindering its course, it at last whirrs to a tentative stop directly beside her. The thing flails and screeches chaotically within the black cocoon like a trapped feline. The fabric flaps and flutters like the wings of a bat. Booth keeps his covering aim steady as she draws back and slams the stock against the writhing creature within. It emits a loud grunt and then all is quiet. Exhaling her relief, she looks to her partner, who remains largely hesitant to lower his weapon.

A screaming roar demands their attention back at the warehouse entrance. Whirling in startled reply, they can only watch as an infected male charges forward, past the threshold of the warehouse, baring its teeth and snarling at them with utter odium.

Rays of light ignite the patterned maze of blue veins bulging beneath its sickly face, singeing the flesh and creating tiny blisters that hiss in the air. Small swirls of steam rise from the fresh sores. It ceases in its bellowing and now falls into an eerie calm, glaring at them with menacing gray eyes clouded with KV. Even under the pain it must be suffering, it doesn't move. Booth keeps his aim on the potential threat firm, but notices the familiar dark green of the military jacket that bedecks the thing's broad shoulders.

For a reason unknown to him, Booth doesn't like that. He doesn't like that at all.

* * *

It sees the enemy. Through the broken mind it possesses–taken over by instinct and blind rage–it recognizes the threat. Its racing pulse thrums in its ears, its breathing quick.

It had been a man, once. Now it is merely an animal–living only to survive, to eat, and to hunt. It is the alpha male of its group.

Its name had been Cortman.

It never remembers its name. It remembers nothing of life. But in the haze of feral instinct, its mind holds a superior intellect. It can rationalize–no matter how small a fraction. This means it can plan. Contrive.

It can learn.

Its eyes fall on her. A flicker of recognition in its fragmented memory–it knows of her. She is a Day Stalker. She threatens their existence, wants to destroy them. It won't allow that. It feels revenge. It feels an anger deeper than instinct claw at it. She's protected. Uttering a low growl, it turns its eyes to the second Day Stalker. _Him_.

It has a plan. To get to her–to get to Mother–the one who stands in the way would have to be purged. With the threat gone, it can at last be free to break her. He will be removed from the line of fire. Torn from the battlefield. With no shepherd, the sheep would be helpless against the wolf. And then it would seek her.

Huffing an angry growl, the infected male utters a final snarl before retreating back into the shadows.

* * *

**September 31****st****, 2009**

_He decides that being in a position of greater influence matters exactly naught when panic seizes the hearts of those in need of protection and higher advisement. _

_He isn't sure why he keeps coming to work. He supposes that perhaps he comes for information. Sitting at home won't help him find her. Sitting at home won't do her any good. Her safety and care demands him sitting at this desk every day, working and collecting information. Devising some sort of plan to keep her safe and even hidden–if that's what it comes to. _

_But still, staring out the window now and into the world below, he can't help but feel useless against the fear assaulting each and every one of them. In the back of his mind, he hears another agent enter his office, muttering a greeting before dropping what Booth guesses as mail atop his desk. _

_When he's alone again, he considers even bothering to read it. He stands by the window for another whole minute before heaving a sigh and moving around his desk. __Without sitting, he begins to rifle through the individual slips of paper and envelopes. Nothing gains his remote interest until a familiar seal catches his gaze, burning into the backs of his eyes. _

_The letter comes from Langley. _

_Why is he getting a letter from Langley, in association with the District of Defense? __A growing unease begins to develop in his middle, and he swears the temperature of his office drops. Something isn't right. Something is very, very wrong. _

_Steeling himself against the flutter of worried emotion assailing him, he turns the slip of stationery over in his hands and tears open the envelope, unfolding the letter._

_He begins to read._

_The moment he'd received that formal order, his fate was sealed. _


	17. Facing My Requiem

**Author's Note: Knew I'd be able to get another up today!**

**Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile!**

* * *

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**  
FACING MY REQUIEM

*

_However far-reaching our intellectual achievements  
And however advanced our knowledge of Creation  
Without faith and a sense of our own spirituality  
There is only isolation and despair  
And the human race is a lost cause._

-Jane Hawking-

* * *

Donning her lab coat, she slides open a small incubation shelter within the confines of the basement. Reaching in, she draws back with a tray in her hands, housing an assortment of fluids encased in small tubules. Turning away from the cooling shelter, she at last faces the examination table not ten feet away. Summons a settling breath.

The infected host lies resiliently contained atop, restrained by thick wrist and ankle cuffs, which are in turn grounded by steel chains. The creature is medically linked to a variety of IVs and vital monitors, heavily sedated. It wears a tank top–stained and sullied from the underground life it's led, and a dark pair of shorts. Its translucent skin pulses with adrenaline even in slumber, breathing rapid and chest heaving at an extreme rate.

Booth had always labeled their diagnosis in much simpler terms. _The wheel is turning, but the hamster is dead. _

The machine monitoring heart rate never rests. There's hardly any pause between the mechanic bleeps. Coming to stand over the troubled creature, Brennan's astute eyes scan over its body, calculative and searching. "Subject is female." She speaks for the recording. "Likely eighteen to twenty years of age. Calmative only sedates effectively six times human dose." Blue eyes flicker to the monitors, and she recites the readings. "Core temperature one hundred and six degrees Fahrenheit, pulse two hundred BPM. Respiration elevated. PA02. Three hundred percent of normal."

Proceeding forward, she delves into the pocket of her lab coat, brandishing a small flashlight. She gently presses back an eyelid of the host, inspecting the outcome carefully with the tiny beam. The sickly gray iris flutters back and forth under the light, but remains otherwise unresponsive. The skin beneath her gloved fingers is moist and overtly unhealthy.

"Pupils fully dilated. Non-reactive to light." Disposing of the flashlight, she retrieves a security wand-sized ultraviolet light emitter, switching it on to drag it over the close interval above the forearm. Under the bluish tint, the flesh blisters immediately, sizzling in the quiet space.

"Extreme reaction to UV exposure." Setting aside the emitter, she stands rigidly over the specimen. "Symptoms and tissue samples confirm that the subject is infected with KV." Turning back to the tray she's collected, she takes up a small tubule and fits it neatly to a ready syringe. "Vaccine test. GA-series 391, Compound Six."

Placing the needle gently against the crux of the elbow, she battles the urge to hold her breath. Feels her stomach knot with stunning severity.

"Commencing human trials."

The clear liquid slowly injects into the bloodstream, the blue veins plainly visible through the female's skin. All she can do now is wait.

And she needn't wait long. Over a gradual period, results slowly begin to reveal themselves. The most obvious change is in the creature's breathing level, which has begun steadily reducing speed. Brennan, trying to suppress her growing eagerness, glances at the monitor, translating the readings quickly. "Respiration slowing," she says, spark in her tone. "Pulse one-ninety. Core temperature… one-oh-five… one-oh-four and decreasing…"

Through her clinical façade, a trace of excitement betrays her objectiveness. Blue eyes are alight. A smile threatens the corners of her mouth.

_Yes. Oh, yes!_

"We may have something here–"

At that moment, the infected host lets out a piercing shriek and lurches upwards from the table, lunging at Brennan and baring its blood-stained teeth. She jumps back, startled, and swiftly draws the pistol from her hip holster underneath her lab coat. Taking aim and a quick step back, she hesitates. Can only watch as it thrashes and bellows atop the examination table.

The chains restraining it rattle loudly and slam against their absolute limits, the leather straps whining, hissing, as they stretch to accommodate the new resistance. Brennan slowly lowers her weapon, despite the episode unfolding before her. Her expression is almost tired, but unmistakably saddened. Her eyes hold a moisture that will not fall, won't develop any further, but emits a cheerless shine in the low light of the cramped room.

A silence clouds her ears past the cyclical shrieks which quickly morph into one prolonged outburst as the female Infected tips its head and screams. Writhes on the table. Agony, madness.

All at once then, it falls still. Silence.

The monitor in the background flat-lines.

She watches over the poor creature. Features are stoic, though her eyes reveal every pain, every new chink in her armor. In the back of her mind, she hears the door slam open and the heavy footfalls on the stairs leading down. She doesn't need to turn to know he's there. Here, beside her. His own weapon drawn in her defense without forethought, pure instinct. She doesn't bother to admonish him for setting foot in the basement.

If doesn't matter anymore, anyway. There's nothing here to harm him. Blinking slowly, she barely hears, registers, her own voice. "GA-series 391… ineffective on humans." It falls flat and makes the air thick, weighs it down. Corrupts her strength of will. And she's a lost cause.

She wishes she could unleash her anger unto her surroundings–destroy the equipment with a collection of well-placed strikes from her skilled appendages, or an easily obtained cylindrical instrument. Anything. Knock over all the shelving units, perhaps. Wipe them clean with a single sweep of her arm. Scream, cry, curse. But she doesn't.

She can't summon the energy.

She only stares at the now dead thing occupying her table. This thing she's just murdered, however inadvertently. A moment passes, and she feels his hand rest on her shoulder. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't have to. She can feel his emotion through the simplicity of his touch. His skin radiates warmth through the fabric of her lab coat and shirt. Her thoughts drift in her solitary reverie of failure.

She feels drained.

She doesn't cry, doesn't scream. Only stares, and breathes. Exists. Goes on living.

And while she continues to breathe, another has already died.

"Still no cure," she whispers into the quiet.

* * *

_**October 2**__**nd**__**, 2009**_

_She watches him, devastated. The sorrowful ache filling her from within._

_And she waits. She knows what is right, knows he is only doing what is just. __Yet the pain won't leave her. She can't escape the tears that threaten to fall. She feels overpowering guilt over what she has done–the lives she has destroyed–and she knows she has every obligation to accept the responsibility of her mistakes. __But somehow, that rational piece of her mind is less dominant. Forgetful and negligent of this duty, and she only feels afraid. _

_Has he betrayed her? Her shining knight?_

_Of course he has. He is betraying her at this very moment. She can think of no image more finalizing than him with the muzzle of a high-powered rifle aimed at her. __Knowing what is inevitable, she tries to summon the courage which normally is within close reach of her grasp. But it has abandoned her now. _

_Nevertheless, she raises her chin and takes a breath. Trying to be strong for him, if not for herself. She knows what he must do can't come easy for him. He'd sworn he would never betray her, hurt her._

_But is he truly? Is that what he is doing? Or is he simply saving her? From herself. From what she has done. _

_She knows she would rather it be him, if anyone. It hurts less, knowing that she was surrendering to him. She can do that. If it were any other, her pride might conflict with her nobility, and rather coincide with her instinct to flee. But with him, she remains steady. _

_She remains grounded. Just as always, he is her anchor. _

_Of all the times he's saved her, pulled her in the nick of time from the claws of death, it seems only fitting that he should be the one to silence her. _

_Her guardian reaper. It's tragically poetic._

_She knows he will hate himself. Wishes that he won't. __She wills him to remember that, sometimes, a single life needed to be sacrificed for a greater cause. He could be saving so many…_

_She steels her gaze for him, trying to convey her acceptance. Make the damage a little less. Even so, a part of her still falters. Flinches. She hopes he's unable to read that. _

_In the back of her mind, she worries if it will hurt. __Trying to still her trembling form–to be brave–she fights against the fear that suddenly plagues her. __What will it be like? Will it take long? __She doesn't want to die. __What she'd once labeled as human instinct, she disregards now in her plight. Her lower lip quavers tearfully in sickening anticipation as she waits for him to do what is necessary. _

Necessary_, she tells him with her eyes. _

_She waits for the deafening shot._

_In that moment, she hopes that maybe he is right about God and heaven. She doesn't want to just disappear. Cease from everything. Yet at the same time, she pleads with every morsel of her being that he is wrong. Because if he is right, she's certain her soul will not rise. __She doesn't deserve paradise. Not after what she's done. All the deaths she's responsible for._

_She watches him slide the bolt of his rifle forward, and thinks she might have seen him blink tears away. He's distanced too far from her to be sure. Despite the situation, she trusts him. He would not have her suffer. _

_He would make it clean, quick. Painless. _

_As if he were speaking right beside her, she can almost hear his voice, soothing. _

You won't feel a thing, Temperance. I promise. Don't be afraid.

_Don't be afraid. __Tragically comforted by this, she waits for darkness to overtake her. And before she hears the sharp discharge of the sniper rifle, she wonders if he will forgive her for being so easy to find. If he'll forgive himself. She hopes he will. She knows she has already forgiven him._

_And she doesn't stop loving him._

_She loves him. Booth. She _loves_ him. _

_Suddenly fearless, she confronts the desire to shout it to everyone she knows–anyone who will listen. She's in love with her best friend. The revelation is wasted on her alone. He needs to know. She must tell him. _

_But then she remembers that she is about to die._

* * *

_My will shall shape the future.  
__Whether I fail or succeed  
Shall be no man's doing but my own.  
__I am the force. I can clear any obstacle before me  
Or I can be lost in the maze.  
__My choice, my responsibility.  
Win or lose, only I hold the key to my destiny._

-Elaine Maxwell-


	18. Bridges to be Burned

****

**Author's Note: Sorry for the lack of update yesterday. Wasn't home.**

**Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile!**

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN  
**BRIDGES TO BE BURNED

*

_Fountain, fountain, we are the same  
You with the water, and me with the pain  
Turning it over again and again  
Don't you wish you could throw  
Your pennies back at them?_

_All that anyone ever has for you  
Are the things you reflect back at them  
It is so beautiful how you remain_

-Sarah Lov-

* * *

**  
**_**August 19**__**th**__**, 2010**_

"Day three hundred seventy-seven."

The large laptop in her office reflects her image back to her. She's no longer able to stay below, can't be in the basement. It's too painful. So she finds transitory comfort in the rays of fresh sunlight leaking through the partially sealed blinds. Gazing past the windowed glass, she watches a few stubborn leaves cling desperately to a brittle tree limb against the breeze. Finally giving up, they're released into the wind and lost along the way.

_And another year is lost. _Her eyes flutter downward, seeking solace in the earth. While his would go heavenward, seeking answers in a different place.

She remembers last night. The sun hadn't quite gone down yet. He'd gone up, allowing her time with her thoughts. He knows her too well.

When she'd returned from below, he'd been waiting. Patient and sweetly constant as ever. He'd opened his arms, both a request and an invitation. She'd barely given it a second thought, accepting his extended comfort immediately. As his arms held her steady, stabilizing and giving, she hadn't cried. She couldn't find the strength to do so. She'd kept silent, heartsore and depleted.

Before she'd realized it, he had lowered them to the couch and had drawn her onto his lap. She'd tensed briefly at the rather intimate contact, but had calmed as his hands began to ease all of the tension that had been building in her back and shoulders throughout that day. She had been asleep in minutes.

She'd woken this morning in her bed. He'd left her a note saying that he'd gone for a walk. And now here she was. The reflection staring back at her from the screen, slightly pixilated, is a face she barely recognizes.

She sees her face every day. More so now due to her sessions with the recording monitors. But lately she feels a stranger to her own eyes. Sees the dark circles collected under them, and the worrisome pale façade making up the surface of her skin. She's a fair creature mostly, but lately it's become worse.

The woman on the computer screen is a sad, weary being. She can only summon the effort to simply stare back, slouched apathetically in her rotating office chair. "We came in close contact with a hive yesterday afternoon," she goes on, glancing away from the screen to find an interest in the unremarkable desktop. "Blood tests confirm that while I still retain the KV virus within my system, I remain immune to each the airborne, blood borne, and contact strains. Mammals remain immune to airborne strains only."

She holds her breath for a moment before allowing it to gradually leave her lungs. Blinking slowly, she shifts in her chair. Deep in thought, she speaks in autopilot. Detaches.

"Agent Booth continues to be impervious to both airborne and contact strains of the virus. It is unclear whether any blood borne infection would yield the same results." Before she can dwell too much longer on that disquieting avenue, she catches movement in her peripheral.

"Morphine," he entices, waggling a stout ivory mug before her eyes. "For the pain."

Shifting her attention between the offering and her companion, she allows a halfhearted smile. "Is it on the rocks?" she teases hopefully, mirroring a previous exchange, glad of him for the thought. She's glad he's back.

Booth _tsk_s, blowing out a sigh. "Nooo…" he trails off, settling it in her hand before taking up a seat next to her. "Actually, it's just coffee." He gives her a kind smile. "The caffeine will keep you nice and twitchy, though."

"My sudden lack of interest isn't at all surprising." She can't even form a proper banter.

"Twitchy is better than mopey, Bones."

Conceding that, in the greater outlook of things, he's right, she surrenders to his bequeathed mug of coffee. Knowing he's made the warming brew–alcohol or not–just for her, somehow makes it taste a little better.

She finds herself soothed almost immediately, allowing the homey smell to fill her nose as she inhales deeply. The blinking red light on the monitor reminds her that she'd been in the middle of something. "Vaccine trials continue," she informs, relaxing further as she watches him settle in more comfortably beside her in his separate chair. Though she doubts his interest of her current undertakings, she's aware he knows the importance it holds to her. That's apparently enough for him. A smile flutters briefly across her lips, but it disappears just as quickly. "I am still unable to transfer my immunity to infected hosts," she discloses quietly. "KV is… elegant."

Upon speaking the word, she feels her mind begin to wander. She becomes lost in her thoughts, swaying back and forth slightly in her chair, zoning out of the present. Beside her, he sits hunched over, staring aimlessly into his own coffee cup. A drowsy silence descends between them. As he studies his muted reflection in the black liquid surface, his expressive eyebrows raise slightly.

His voice is a barely audible mumble. "Cards are war in disguise of a sport."

She blinks, fading out of her daydream to look at him. Sadly curious. "What?"

His lips part to release another sigh, but he shakes his head absentmindedly, poking at his cup. "Nothing. Charles Lamb."

Turning her focus onto the mug in her hands, she stares into the surface of the coffee as if it holds great wisdom. "I… a subject was lost yesterday." Her voice is very quiet. After another moment, upset and torn, she breathes a small and humorless laugh. "The rats lasted longer."

Guilt traces every line in Brennan's face.

"Bones."

He wastes no time. His directive voice reaches her, even through the draining fog that's recently encompassed her. His tone is firm, but nowhere near a command or retort. A lasting security comes with it.

She'd once told him that discovering the antidote for KV would be the equivalent of trying to find the proverbial needle in the haystack–if the needle knew you were looking for it, and was trying to hide. He'd smiled, laughed. And then he'd reminded her that she didn't believe in metaphors. She was the metal detector to this widespread hayfield. She _would_ succeed, because she wasn't weighed down by allegorical nonsense.

Taking a redeeming breath, she allows herself to be consumed by full Squint-mode–delves back into the science. Back to what she knows. Looking at the facts instead of what lies before her always makes it easier. "Behavioral note," she remarks, sitting up straighter in her seat. "An infected male exposed himself to sunlight. Now, it's possible decreased brain function or growing scarcity of food is causing them to…" she narrows her eyes, a furrow developing in her brow as she tries formulate an explanation that her companion can also comprehend, "ignore their basic survival instincts. Social devolution appears complete."

He feels the sudden urge to leave the room, suddenly restless and left with a lingering unease towards the findings she's recited. Staring off into nothing particular, he remembers the Infected she speaks of.

Something about this specific host causes the unsettling shiver creeping down his spine that he can't explain. Nevertheless, he maintains his silence and schools his muscles into stillness. Even if she doesn't say it, doesn't show it, she needs him here.

Ever the partner willing to please and comfort and lend his support, he stays. Refuses to leave her.

"Typical human behavior is now entirely absent."

* * *

_**October 26**__**th**__**, 2009**_

_On the run is not a place Seeley Booth likes to be. Being behind enemy lines or a prisoner of war is one thing, but being a fugitive of your own country is an entirely different colored horse. __It's not something he enjoys, that's for certain. Especially in times like these, when they've been found out. _

_Nevertheless, action is the antidote to despair._

_While Brennan is currently engaged in close combat with another agent–and winning, he notes thankfully–he's currently busied with a battle of his own. __Fire ignites on his jaw, but he ducks the next fist that sails at him. He sidesteps and throws an elbow into his opponent's face. __Though he's further disturbed by the situation, he's glad of the fact he doesn't know these men. Recognizing their faces only adds to the guilt. _

_Brennan had always felt this, too. "Us or them," he'd told her firmly. There was only ever one choice to the matter. _

_Recently disposing of her adversary, she stands aimlessly now. "Booth?" _

_Unarmed, she's helpless and can't do much in the way of aiding him. All their weapons reside in the truck parked just a short jaunt away. The sidearm she'd possessed has since been knocked away by the skilled agent she'd fought. The best had been sent after them. Always and only ever the best._

_It's never enough, though._

_Booth's sidearm remains untouched within his shoulder holster, having yet been given an opening to retrieve it. And he's reluctant–he doesn't want to kill these men. __The single moment of attention he'd spared her sacrifices his advantage and now earns him another sharp blow across the jaw. __Quickly shaking it off, he tries not to notice the fresh bruising that's begun to develop over her fair cheekbone, focusing instead on his opponent. _

"_Get to the truck!" he tells her over his shoulder, swearing inwardly as his attacker draws a knife. This one is army-trained. He's sure of that–even if the military dress isn't evidence enough. _

_There had been two agents, and three soldiers. _

_Brennan, despite knowing it best to follow her partner's instructions when in situations such as these, neglects his advice. Stays to help him. __She's ineffective without substantial artillery, but he isn't fairing much better. The second agent brings up his flank, ready to pounce, and this is the one she confronts now. _

_Evading the swipe of the blade, Booth makes a quick decision. If he's to perform the maneuver he's considering, he'd be unable to prevent his opponent from drawing a second knife. __If he does, he knows it won't be long before he'd feel that spare blade slipping between his ribs in quick execution. __Ever the gambler, he goes for it. _

_As the man jabs straight out with the blade, Booth catches the offending arm between his own and his side, trapping him. __With his other arm, he snaps the heel of his hand forward against the soldier's shoulder joint and spirals full around. With a lurch and a heave, the man is sailing over his shoulder and connecting with the cold wet earth in a heap. _

_It's early morning, and the first trace of snowfall has yet to thaw from underfoot. About two inches blankets the ground–strange yet for so early in the year. _

_With the rookie on the ground, Booth still maintains a firm hold on the arm with the knife and twists hard, earning a yelp for his efforts. Apprehending the knife away, he leaves the man alone with a battered face and dislocated shoulder. __Brennan's opponent is discarded as well._

_Behind him though, he hears something that makes his skin crawl, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. _

"_Made my life in the face of danger, living as a kick ass Ranger. Did all my killing with hate and anger," the soldier's cadence is intoned slightly, rolling off the deep voice. "Lived a life of blood and danger…" _

_Booth slowly turns, chiseled face darkening. _

"…_because that's the only way to be an Army Ranger."_

_A single soldier challenges him. The basic breathing mask hinders his view of the man's face, but he knows already who it is. The voice, conceited and patronizing, can belong to no one else. __Reaching up, the soldier pulls off the unnecessary breathing mask, the revelation delayed until those dark green eyes appear from under its shadow. _

_His build is strong, an inch or so taller than Booth and slightly broader shouldered. His square-frame is more hulking, rather than leaning toward slender. _"_Rangers lead the way." The quietly taunting voice strikes a nerve in the former Army sniper, and Booth feels his muscles tense. _

"_Cortman." By the way the name is spoken, it is not a pleasant greeting. _

_Brennan stills. Does Booth know this man?_

_Benjamin Cortman. Ex-Army Ranger. Also a former sniper. Currently demoted to what Booth guessed was the National Guard. _

_Racing through the fault-finding memories associated with his former comrade, Booth isn't happy with the situation. __Though the hinted dislike had been there from the beginning, they had been assigned to the same outfit on several occasions. The man was an excellent soldier. Sometimes too good. A hammer with no nail. __Always an excellent shot, but never good enough. Never as good as the less temperamental sniper. _

_Cortman's eyes crinkle with amusement at the situation, however. "Never thought I'd find myself in this position." The smile fades, green eyes darkening as he points the muzzle of his M-14 at Booth in lazy contemplation. "Can't say I'm too broken up about it, though." _

_Words are spoken with all the humanity of a dial tone._

_A cocky bastard who had liked getting his way, enjoyed a good brawl. If field combat yielded no action, that sometimes had meant picking a fight with the taciturn Sarge. __The reason behind it was irrelevant, though it could be assumed that it had been because of their relative size. The two "big guys." And Ben Cortman was not tolerant of being runner-up. _

_Booth almost has to laugh. If Bones thought _he_ suffers from overplayed alpha-male tendencies…_

_There is a difference though, he inwardly defends of himself. His tendencies tended to lean towards over-protectiveness and safeguarding those he holds dear. Cortman was all about superiority. He'd often looked down on those beneath him–only one of the reasons why Booth had felt it so difficult to get along with him. Teamwork had been a foreign concept to the guy. _

_Skipping to the end, Booth recalls hearing of the Ex-Ranger sniper's dishonorable discharge. Both on and off the battlefield, disorderly conduct was common with him. _

_Cortman had always been his darker half. The Eddie Brock to his Peter Parker. _

"_Orders are to drop you on sight," Cortman continues. "Same goes for your little scientist bitch." _

_Booth feels his jaw tighten. The snow cracks, crunches under the weight of his boots. The tips of his fingers are already turning pink, burning even as they curl into fists. Knuckles pale. Brown eyes narrow into black slits._

_Booth can't speak. If he does, he'll get into a verbal toss up with him and get distracted. He can't afford that. _

"_All this is her fault anyway, right?" Cortman spreads his arms in an encompassing gesture, voice bitter and accusing. "I sort of hoped to thank her in person." _

"_Not going to happen." His promise is dark, flat. _

"_Yeah, we'll see." The cockiness is back, rampant. Waiting. Anticipating. Brennan strays closer to Booth, lost on how to handle the situation. "Back it up, Doctor," Cortman snaps. _

_She watches her partner closely. She's never seen him like this. He'd been a consummate agent in many ways, and when not in the thick of a chase or the natural attendant altercations resulting in the capture of a suspect, he rarely, if ever, resorted to violence. __He'd always kept whatever anger he felt leashed, behind a mask of disinterest, or disdain and contempt of the suspects. But now he radiates a dark fury that leaves her breathless, chilled. _

_Old wounds reopen, deadly and venomous. Tourniquets are torn away, merciless._

_Cortman's aim wanders away from Booth, slowly searching out a more satisfying target. "Either way, she's dead before noon." _

"_Don't, Ben," Booth says, hearing the banked anger in his own voice. It's not a plea, but a warning. _

_A smile tips Cortman's lips that speaks of malevolence and callous intent. He has the cold look of a predator, one that Booth recognizes instantly because he'd used to see it in the mirror, years ago. __Booth meets his eyes with an unwavering stare, hot and deadly, gaze contrasting sharply with his outwardly relaxed pose. Inwardly, muscles are coiled, ready to spring. Ready to unleash damage. _

"_I'm not the bad guy, Booth." The enlightenment is almost laughable, but grating. "Just had some lesser moments of shining glory." _

_Booth's eyes narrow, but Brennan sees a subtle change come over him. He becomes calmer, steadier. She suddenly realizes she's seeing the sniper he'd been coming back into action. More than that, the soldier he had been. __It's an insight she isn't sure she wants to witness. She knows little of his actions and methods overseas, but the look in his eyes speaks alone. _

"_You, on the other hand," Cortman takes a casual step forward, shaking his head. "Always the cowboy. Big strapping hero. Whining about all the people you had to snuff out, crying over the onslaught of senseless guilt. Every damn perfect shot. Well, look at you now." To Brennan's surprise, the soldier drops his gun, forgotten at his feet. "A waste of a soldier. You don't get to go easy." _

"_Bones, get to the truck." _

_Her attention snaps to her partner in surprise. This is an order. He doesn't look away from the other man, but she can almost feel the burn of his stare on her. _"_What?" _

"_Now."_

_The force and quiet intensity in his voice is enough to move her. Reluctant, she obeys, but doesn't look away as she retreats. _

_The two ex-snipers slowly circle. Booth is otherwise still. Cortman's fingers twitch at his sides, adrenaline racing. He stares coldly, silently. Booth meets his drilling gaze with equally cold and determined eyes. __He knows Cortman. If he doesn't stop him, he'll kill Bones. _

_When Cortman speaks, his voice is deadly calm. "Still remember all those moves, Seel? You still that fast?"_

_Booth's voice is low and quiet. Darkened with purpose. "Faster than you." His lips barely move around the words. _

_Cortman bares his teeth, lip curling into something between a snarl and a grin. "Egos need to be bruised sometimes, to remind the fools they are not gods."_

_Booth, consumed by anticipation of the upcoming fight, recalls briefly the Churchill quote: "I like a man who grins when he fights." He tends to disagree. Lunatics were loose cannons, something Booth hadn't come up against for some time. At least not at this level of deadly skill. Dammit, but this isn't going to be pleasant._

_Dormant muscle memory refocuses, sparking to life in his mind and limbs. Time to cut loose, then. _

_There is something to be said about rage. Vision tunnels, focusing on that sickeningly self-assured smile. __Brennan, yards away, gasps as the two former snipers engage into action. Mirror images collide and when they do, it's something like thunder. _

_Arms bend and crack. It's fast, brutal. _

_She's always known Booth downplayed his hand-to-hand combat abilities, but she's never imagined this. Was that Maui Thai? _

_The two men, each trained by Israeli Army instructors in Krav Maga–a fighting style concentrating on the natural reflexes of the human body, go at each other in unarmed combat. __Cortman takes a hit, ducking the next and delivering two rapid blows to Booth's ribcage. __They block each other's strikes, blows–all snapping limbs and solid shields. Cortman stumbles back when Booth locks his elbows and kicks forward, boot catching his opponent in the chest. _

_Across the snow, drenched and freezing, they fight. _

_It's primitive, feral. Graceful in ruthless execution. She's never seen anything like it. Two men–so equally matched in skill–exchanging harsh, bone-breaking blows. They shout, curse, but mostly they fight. _

_Cortman receives another strike, side crunching against the beaten snow. Rolling away from the boot slamming at his face, he kicks out with his leg, catching Booth behind the knee. He lands hard on his back, lungs constricting as the air rushes out, but a second later, he's jumping back to an upright position. _

_The battle intensifies. Both panting, the blows become stronger, more determined, less merciful. Cortman bleeds from the nose and lip, Booth from a laceration above his brow and his own split lip. __Cortman jerks his arm up behind his back, shoving him into a tree. Throwing him to the ground, his boot slams against Booth's bad shoulder. _

_Capitalizing on the advantage, Cortman makes for his fallen firearm. His orders haven't changed. Kill the woman, deal with the rogue agent later. _

_Priority One. _

_Just as his fingers close around the stock, Booth tackles him to the ground, snow flying and dusting their bodies. __He knees the bigger man in the stomach, pounds his face into the cold ground. _

_Knee on his back, holding him down, he tears the pistol out of its holster. He bounds to his feet and kicks Cortman over onto his back, pistol trained with deadly and unwavering aim. __He can feel his Ranger heart beating again, and after suppressing it for so long, it beats ten times more powerful than ever before. _

One shot, one kill_, it thumps, loud in his ears. _

_His breathing is ragged and he is spent–with just enough fight left in him to make sure his former ally won't harm his partner. __All he sees is red. Cortman stares up at him defiantly, breathing just as heavily. _

_Seconds later, his breath hitches when he feels her hand on his shoulder. His aim doesn't break, but his attention is snagged. _"_Don't," she tells him, voice soft and beseeching. "Please, Booth." _

_He glances at her, strong features less hardened by provoked anger. Her eyes are wide with insistence and concern. His actions–that power he'd unleashed, revealed–have startled her. _

_He's scared her. That's unacceptable. _

_He turns back to Cortman, flicking the safety off but keeping his finger on the trigger. Blackness clouds over the brown, warning. Daring. _

_He lowers the gun, ready to leave with her. Choosing light over darkness. _"_You follow us, I'll kill you."_

_Cortman stays down._

* * *

_Through the clouds of fallen ash  
Among the fields of broken glass  
The loyal few will arise, faith now regained  
__Finding strength within the void, a raging fire ignites  
And conviction to fight, pride be your name  
__Armed with resistance and blind to the cost  
They say your purpose is mindless and lost  
But we don't adhere to the slander they spill  
These tears we spill, they haunt us still  
__The cries of the weak lie quiet in sleep, beneath our feet  
__We are the sons of holy wrath, a shining light in the dark  
The ones who walk amongst despair  
No sign of fear in our hearts  
__Open your eyes to the truth  
__Believe the words that stand the test  
__You're not what they say  
__  
__Turn over the tables and watch them run  
__You'll be the weapon they can't outgun_

-Song of the Soldier-


	19. Light up the Darkness

**Author's Note: Apologies. I was so busy drooling over the new TVGUIDE that I forgot to post a chap, lol.**

**Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile!**

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN  
**LIGHT UP THE DARKNESS

*

_I am outside, and I've been waiting for the sun  
With my wide eyes, I've seen worlds that don't belong  
My mouth is dry with words I cannot verbalize  
Tell me why we live like this  
Keep me safe inside your arms like towers  
We're at war, we live like this  
Because we are broken  
What must we do to restore our innocence?_

_Give us life again, we just want to be whole  
And I'll take the truth at any cost_

-Paramore-

* * *

"_Teach me." _

"_No."_

_It isn't easy for her to ask, but his even refusal still leaves her feeling rejected. She remains unable to shake the uneasiness from the week before, but can't decide if it's because of the constant danger or because she'd had a firsthand glimpse of just what her partner is capable of. __Combined with what she'd seen of him in that fight with his former comrade, she knows he's proficient in several martial arts and a former champion boxer. There's more she doesn't know of his skill, of this she's certain. He's a walking arsenal even without a gun in his hands. _

_She needs to learn. Doesn't want to, but knows she must. Cold blue steel burns into smoldering black coals. __Defiant. _

"_I can't survive like this," she tells him, and he flinches, all too aware of this painful truth. __She isn't trained to handle expertly consummate soldiers in combat. He is. He's one himself, even if the soldier title no longer remains. If he were to become distracted, detained, rendered unconscious–she wouldn't be able to protect him or herself. _

_Nevertheless, he makes a weak attempt. _"_You know how to fight, Temperance. You're an incredible fighter. You got your martial arts and yoga and all that other stuff. You'll…" his eyes fall downcast, attempting the lie even though the bitterness of it tastes altogether wrong, "you'll be okay." It's just above a whisper. A desperate whisper, almost as though he's trying to convice himself of what he says._

"_That's not true. You know it," she insists. Reaching out, she takes his hand, transferring confidence and need. Her eyes seek his, and for a moment, he's gently mollified. It had been her eyes, he thinks, that first drew him to her. An intoxicating blend of gray and blue that change as mercurially as her moods. He could always see her drive and determination housed in those eyes and knows that once her steely resolve reaches them, nothing would stand in her way. Those eyes that can make him do anything, summon actions within him before he can even blink. "Teach me." _

_His expression is very grim. A deep frown darkens his face to stunning degree. But eventually, he relents. For her. __It's a double-edged sword, so he seizes the lesser evil. _

_The training he puts her through is brutal. She'd always believed she was in excellent condition–ready for anything with impressive combating skill. But now her hair hangs in tendrils around her face, immobilized strands sticking to her forehead with a coat of sweat. __Her breathing is harsh, rapid. Gasping, she dodges away from his frontal attack. He's evaded her every advantage, and her frustrations have begun to get the better of her. _

_How'd he get so damn fast?_

_Shouting out a cry somewhere between rage and physical anguish, she presses the attack. Determined to prove him wrong, catch him with his guard down. That expression on his face doesn't help matters. __He's smirking, mirth fueled by her banshee outrage she's failed to leash. Impressed, however. Pleased by her will. Though amused for now, he's never imagine she'd hold out this long today. A bitter internal sarcasm berates him that he should've known better, of course. _

_He never strikes her. Refuses to, despite her argument that she must learn from experience. He always stops just short of contact. _

_His fatigue is also grating, wearing him down, but he doesn't stop. So neither does she. One-upmanship to the extreme. The practice they engage in is more intense than any fight she's ever been in. _"_Train like you fight," he always tells her. "The more you sweat now, the less you bleed in combat." _

_The quote is familiar, but she's too distracted to pinpoint the name to go with it, so she fights. Summons resilience and stamina she hadn't even known she had. Her hair is tied back, and errant strands, damp with sweat, hang in her face. She's too exhausted, too distracted, to brush them away. __Her legs feel like steel weights, arms too, and her chest heaves beneath the tank top. His own is noticeably less coated in sweat, but the muscles moving beneath his skin are a fascinating thing to watch. _

_Science falters briefly as she finds herself observing the deadly skill and strength through different eyes. This costs her. _

_He ducks her spinning kick and catches her behind the knee, delivering her to the ground. It's late in the afternoon, so the snow is absent, but the ground is hard from the frost and knocks the wind out of her. _

_She doesn't move. Just lies there, sun on her face, breathing heavily. She wants to continue, but if she moves another muscle, she fears she'll collapse. Stars dot her vision, but a shadow passes over her face and she looks up to see him smiling down at her. The first he's cracked all day. __She wants to laugh, make a teasing remark, but her lungs refuse her. Finally, a gasping chuckle escapes her as he reaches a hand down to help her up. _

_Hair fanned out around her like a halo, smiling up at him, cheeks rosy and sun-kissed, she's beautiful. And despite his reluctance, he's proud of her. _

"_Not bad, Tai Kwan Bones," he says. _

* * *

_**August 20**__**th**__**, 2010**_

With a faint flutter of her eyelashes, Brennan's awake for the day. Still haunted by disheartening dreams of failed experiments and untold victims, she tries to focus on the time, holding her wrist before her eyes. Glancing to the right, bland gaze falls upon the empty bed across from her. It's neatly made, each sheet and corner tucked in. The army's made him such a neat-freak. She frowns at the word; she finds his little quirks and tidiness soothing. Wordlessly, she rises from her mattress, already clothed since the day before in a violet t-shirt and jeans. She moves languidly into the hallway, feet shuffling over the floor.

He's sitting quietly at the small round table in the dining area, pouring over an almanac with a pen and ruler. Normally, she'd study him when in such relaxed concentration. The particular mode, the expression, does something to his face she finds pleasantly curious. Instead, she remains quietly seated beside him, staring into her coffee. In the background, the clock ticks incessantly and the small kitchen television rattles off, mocking her with the newscaster's report.

"…_and we will be taking a closer look at the ongoing mutations of Doctor Temperance Brennan's once hailed miracle cure for cancer_…"

Taking a bite of his eggs, Booth turns his attention back to the almanac. He's learned to tune out the tinny voice coming from the celluloid, wishing that she do the same. It bothers him that she continues to torture herself with the tapes, but a part of him also accepts it. It helps create the illusion that there's perhaps something going on in the world, and that just maybe the future can be changed, despite already knowing how the story ends.

"…_so far, almost five thousand patients treated with the retrofitted virus have begun exhibiting symptoms resembling the early onset of rabies…" _

He bookmarks his page with a Joker playing card. Finding where he's left off, he traces his fingers smoothly over the crisp page, sliding the ruler's edge along the data. Under the _City of DC, Maryland_ log, his brown stare scans through the sunrise and sunset markers.

Obtaining the knowledge sought, he reclines back slightly in his seat and brings his wristwatch up to date with the new times. Glancing back to recheck his work, he takes a passing interest in the date marked. Blinks.

"It's my birthday."

It isn't the fact that he'd forgotten which surprises him. It's more the knowledge that he doesn't really care. It's like commenting on the color of paint in the room. It's just another day. Birthdays for him have never really gone well, anyway. Brennan, however, looks up from her coffee at his sudden revelation. Her expression changes little, but the new information reaches her, nonetheless.

_Oh. _

She's a little upset that he hasn't made a bigger deal out of it. She wishes he'd reminded her sooner. The fact that he's completely disregarded his own birth date saddens her, if she's honest. Yes, she doesn't give much credence to antiquated traditions or most of the American holidays, but a person's date of birth is uniquely special and worth a little salutation.

Feeling her stare, he turns to regard her.

"…_twenty-five patients have already died. In a brief message, Doctor Brennan has strongly advised local hospitals to stockpile antiviral drugs and to begin preliminary quarantine protocols…" _

Seeing her expression change from calm surprise to rekindled guilt at the recitation the television provides, he feels a pinch in his chest. He meets her eyes and tries to exude a little of his patented charm to cheer her up. "You gonna sing?"

A startled smile spreads briefly across her lips at his sudden inquiry. To Booth, it's like seeing the sun breaking through the clouds on an otherwise stormy day. But after a moment, the brightness fades and she goes back to staring into the contents of her cup. Deflating slightly at her reflexive turtle-into-shell maneuver, he withholds a sigh and relaxes back into his seat. His shoulders slump. As he sits in the shared silence, however, the words eventually come to him. It takes another minute or so more to put those words to voice.

"Do you know Bob Marley?"

She blinks, clear blue eyes flickering to his. "What?" When he doesn't elaborate, she lowers her cup away from her face slightly. "You mean personally?"

A deep chuckle escapes him as he shakes his head. "No, not personally." He hesitates, weighing his response. "Anyway, he had this idea. It was kind of a virologist idea." She waits for him to go on, shifting in her seat to better look at him. The relative comparison piques her curiosity. And her instinctive reaction to always hear what he has to say, with honest interest, makes him smile. "He believed that you could cure racism and hate–literally cure it–by injecting music and love into people's lives. When he was scheduled to perform at a peace rally, a gunman came to his house and shot him down."

He can see the contained shock in her eyes and waits before continuing. Holds her gaze with his, showing.

"Two days later… he walked out on that stage and sang. When they asked him why, he said: _The people who were trying to make this world worse are not taking a day off. How can I_?"

Her lips part slightly in reverent amazement. Still though, she knows her partner is hoping she might take something from what he's said. But she isn't this great man he speaks of. She isn't even sure she has the strength to switch off the television spouting the words that nearly break her into a thousand pieces.

She looks away from him, blinking away the sudden sting behind her eyes.

But he doesn't turn from her. Reaching over, he covers his hand with hers. "We all have a purpose, Bones. We're all given a second chance to light up the darkness. Sets things right. No matter how lost we become–I know it's impossible to see–but God has a plan. We're all a part of it. You just have to listen."

Booth tries to sound cheerful, but Brennan can sense the profound sorrow in his voice. Taking a moment to contain her ragged emotions, she pulls her hand away from his and rotates to look him in the eyes again. Breathing a quiet, humorless laugh, she slumps slightly in her chair. "God's plan?" she repeats sadly. Bitterly.

Frustrated tears spring into her eyes, but she won't let them fall. Her throat clogs with painful emotion, but she soldier's on.

"Might I give a little insight into your God's plan?"

Booth doesn't reply, but calmly holds her gaze.

"Six billion people on the earth when the Infection hit. KV had a ninety-percent kill rate. That's five point four billion people dead. _Dead_," she snaps, tone biting and jagged. "Less than one-percent immunity, whether it be airborne, contact, or blood borne strain. That left twelve million healthy people, like you and me. The other five hundred and eighty-eight million turned into those _things_, and then they got _hungry_ and they killed and fed on everybody." Leaning forward in her seat, her clear eyes pool desperately into his. "_Everybody_, Booth. Everyone… is _dead_."

_Because of me._

She stares at him in utter frustration, though the anger leaches from her when there's no rebuttal. Though he hasn't looked away, she can't read the expression behind his eyes. The deep brown that makes them up is softer somehow. Weaker.

A prolonged silence stretches between them, the air heavy and thick. Self-esteem plummets to unfathomable new depths. He inhales deeply and lets it out around a slow sigh. His attention shifts back to his breakfast, saying nothing. He seems to sink lower into his chair, avoiding her incisive gaze, but she catches the sadness and disappointment vying for control of his countenance.

A painful tug in her chest alerts her that she's hurt him. What bothers her more is that he hadn't even defended himself.

She regards him with an almost grateful shame. She'd needed to say those things–get everything off her chest and out of her mind and sleep. Maybe he'd known that. But still, it isn't fair that he always allows her the privilege to vent, when he just sits back and takes it. Absorbs everything she throws at him. Apologizing probably won't make anything better. And she does feel terrible–for trampling on his feelings and his beliefs when he had only been trying to comfort her.

She's furious at herself. But her gaze warms as she watches him, deep in thought and taking the time to go back over his words.

_Listen_, he'd said. _You just have to listen._

She doesn't hear anything. But maybe she does take something out of it. Maybe… somewhere in the darkness… she feels the words he'd meant for her to hear.

Setting her cup gently onto the table, she rises from her seat, lips curving into a cautious half-smile as she makes for the back hall. She stops beside him though, resting a hand on his shoulder before placing a soft kiss on his cheek. "Happy birthday, Booth."

Stilling in surprise, he looks up momentarily from his breakfast. Behind him, he hears her footsteps moving away. His lips upturn slightly and he closes his eyes, humming a quiet sigh that's almost a laugh.

The newscaster brings the report to a final close.

"…_we are fully confident that Doctor Brennan can see us through these dark days, end quote_."

* * *

_Lost causes are the only ones worth fighting for._

-Clarence Darrow-


	20. Madness Reigns Our Fears

****

**Author's Note: Happy readers get happy chappies! Well... nvrmd. This one's not all that happy, I guess. Beginning is, though!**

**Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile!**

* * *

**CHAPTER NINETEEN  
**MADNESS REIGNS OUR FEARS

*

_Well your faith was strong, but you needed proof  
I've seen this room, and I've walked this floor  
I used to live alone before I knew you  
I've seen your flag on the marble arch  
Love is not a victory march  
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah_

_Well maybe there is a God above  
But all I've ever learned from love  
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you  
It's not a cry that you hear at night  
It's not somebody who's seen the light  
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah_

-Kate Voegele-

**

* * *

**

_**August 20**__**th**__**, 2010**_

"_My name is Seeley Booth. With me, is Doctor Temperance Brennan. We are survivors living in Washington DC. I am broadcasting on all AM frequencies. We will be at the Lincoln Memorial everyday at midday, when the sun is highest in the sky. If you are out there… if _anyone_ is out there… we can provide food. We can provide shelter. And we can provide security. _

_If there is anybody out there–anybody–please… you are not alone."_

They spend the waiting period at their favorite side bench near the Reflecting Pool dwelling just in front of the Memorial. The truck is parked close by, and the duffel with all their snack food is deposited on the bench. Sunlight glints like sparkling diamonds off the surface of the wide expanse of water. Two clouds heed the bright blue sky, never straying too far from each other. Companions today, at odds during others.

After digging out two extra waters, Booth makes his way back to the stone edge of the pond, where his partner sits. Her bare feet tread contentedly within the shallow waters, leggings rolled up to her knees. While she relaxes back and enjoys the gentle nibbling of smaller fish against her toes, she graciously lectures her companion on his choice of pastime.

He plops beside her with the drinks, birthday cone hat deliberately crooked atop his head, and promptly casts his fishing line across the water, intent on attracting some bigger game than the peaceable toe-nibblers. Her own hat sits perfectly straight in tidy arrangement atop her waves. He insists that he's deeply in the mood for calamari tonight, for which she incredulously assures him there isn't any logical prospect viable of him catching a cephalopod. In response, he informs her of a more optimistic reality in which he lives, charm unleashed to its fullest.

She purses her lips in reprisal, splashing water at him with her feet. He yelps at the cool refresher, curling away from her gentle onslaught. She laughs at him, bats him away when he dangles a worm before her nose. He's such a juvenile. And she's no better when her second splash provokes further retribution from the former agent. She scrambles upright, laughing and dashing away on bare feet over the grass when he chases after her, threatening to toss her into the drink.

Somehow, his hat ends up snapped over his nose. Hers becomes tangled in her hair, and later she requests a replacement when it winds up with the cardboard tip bent. He apprehends her defective party favor when it's substituted, and wears both it and his own at once. It's here she starts referring to him as the Great Moose.

He rotates hers to the front of her head so that she can assume the role of his unicorn lover.

* * *

_**Iraq  
1997**_

_The Rec Hall remains in easy use, even late past sundown. Simmering voices bounce off the wall's of the interior, sometimes expanding when a chorus of raucous laughter swells in bursting intervals. __Most of the younger soldiers having retired to their tents, only a small few darken the doorway of the mess building. Usually those with higher ranking just getting back from their assignments and details._

_A small group had gathered around the small table off to one of the corners, some watching on as they indulge in a card game or two. Almost all decked in fatigues and wifebeaters._

"_And anyway, jackass, don't think I didn't catch that ace up your sleeve," Cortman derails from his account momentarily to send a glare over the scuffed table at Lieutenant Tafton. "You'll pay for that later. As I was sayin', these bunch a' towelheads decided to rain in on our show sometime around fourteen hundred…" __Some remain heavily interested, hanging on every word, in Cortman's retelling of events. Others try to stay focused on the game. Tafton inwardly surrenders his last pack of cigarettes after the red-handed cheat. _"_And what a sucky spotter you turned out to be, Louis. Lucky I had an eye on both sides of the field or we'd both be signin' off on those folded flags to our mommas."_

"_Screw you, Cortman," Louis laughs, happy to volley back an insult of his own. "If you'd a' kept your sights on the head cheese bomber in the first place, I wouldn't of had to be covering _both_ our sixes."_

_A hearty laugh erupts from the hulking sniper. "Quit being such a whiny bitch and deal the cards. You're lucky I saved both our asses and not just mine." __Another round of disorderly laughter captures the room as Cortman leans back in his seat, catching eye of a new target. _"_Hey there, Booth. Gonna play a hand, or just stand there all night like a schmuck?" _

_A series of "__Hey Sarge____"__ disrupts the smoky air._

_Largely uninterested in the game and more intently focused on a turn at the showers when his chance comes around, Booth shrugs a bare shoulder while mumbling a halfhearted declination. Decked only in fatigues and boots, toothbrush dangling from his mouth, he drapes the St. Christopher's medal back over his naked torso. __Sliding muscles beneath his skin protesting at the day he's had near the bluffs outside camp. __He doesn't wear it on missions very often, the metal could often be too compromising against the heated sun of the desert. _

_His hair is a disheveled mess, telltale signs of soot and dust coating his skin in small layers. Definitely ready for a hot shower. _

"_Nice talkin' to ya, Sarge," Cortman laughs dismissively, though his baiting won't end there. "Hey, by the way–caught the story on how you wasted that bastard down in Kosovo. Nice going, man. Right at his little brat's party, too. Wish I coulda been there. Good thing you're with us now, though, huh?"_

"_Yeah, glad he's on our side," Louis remarks with a snort, but fires another jab at his partner. "Isn't that classified, anyway? Why don't you leave that to the bigshots before you wind up dead in a ditch somewheres?"_

_Booth bristles at the account, a pain twisting in his gut at the suddenly vivid memory. Frown deepening, he rotates away from the group, spitting toothpaste into the large drum sink. Tosses off his toothbrush with a little more force than necessary. __He hasn't been here long. Barely a month, only recently deployed._

_The rest of the men share another laugh. _

"_Don't waste your breath, Cortman. Hawk Eye's brooding again," Louis mutters when no answering reply comes from the elite sniper in the darker confines of the room._

"_Whatever. Barely says two words to anyone, anyway. We'll see how good he is when he's dodgin' IED's tomorrow." _

"_You're just bitchin' cuz he was sent here to do your job," Tafton snickers. "Party's over when they call in your replacement, C-man" _

"_Shut the hell up. Last thing I need is a replacement. I bagged at least a dozen of those hajis today." _

"_Way to brag, dirtbag." Tafton, again._

"_Ain't braggin' if it's true." Cortman lashes out with a crooked sneer, leveling his sights back on his competition. "That why they ship you over here to the sandbox, Booth? Figure you're bad ass enough to do my job for me?" _

"_Maybe," Booth replies with little attention spared. Inwardly grateful that his less generous counterpart hasn't brought up the events down in Guatemala—which would be more than enough emotional ammo. He's not in the mood for any kind of spar, verbal or otherwise. Cleanliness and sleep are the only things on his mind. "Feeling unwanted?" _

_Cortman glowers, expression darkening. "You'd know better than anyone what that's like."_

"_Cool down," Booth sighs, leaning back against a support beam, eyeing the door leading to the shower longingly. __Absentmindedly, he rubs at the tattoos on his wrists.__ "I just go where they aim me." _

_It's gotten quieter, the exchange sparking the active interest of the surrounding soldiers. _

"_Yeah, sure, sure," Cortman nods, easiness rolling off his tongue with careless nonchalance. Seemingly forfeiting the debate, before snapping back with the scorching sucker punch. "Say man, how's your brother getting along with your old man since you left? Haven't seen you writing to him lately." _

_Booth feels his jaw clench unwittingly, his entire frame suddenly rigid. The room falls into a tentative silence, everyone apparently catching the way the clouds darken in the other sniper's eyes. __Booth doesn't talk about Home… a fact that everyone _knows_ and neglects to examine. And obeys, until recently._

_Only one speaks, brave enough to break the heavy, profuse quiet that's suddenly consumed the Hall. "Why don't you lay off, Cortman?" The young Corporal advises with a suffering expression. _

"_Can it, Parker. I asked the man a question–only polite that he answer." _

_Eager for a respite from the discussion, Booth glances sharply to the right when a new private exits the shower room. Shrugging apologetically, he jerks his head at the space. "Heater's busted. Sorry, man."_

"_Jesus," Booth mutters, rolling his eyes heavenward. A cold shower wasn't what he had in mind, but he'll be damned if he's sticking around here any longer. Having only recently transferred, it won't do his record any good to have it against him for embedding a man into the wall so soon at base. No matter how excusable that "doesn't play well with others" mark may hold on his file. _

_He keeps his temper in check almost at all times, is known for his somewhat pacifist nature. But it's when that scale tips and lines are crossed that things start to get ugly. __Gathering his belongings, he moves for the door when Cortman suddenly blocks his path. "Actually, I think I could use a shower, too. You don't mind, Booth? I'll save you a few drops."_

_Booth withholds another sigh, glancing to the side. He's really not in the mood for this. "Outta the way, Cortman." _

"_Try me, hotshot." _

_And suddenly the room is tense and sparking challenge is issued with the graveled tone of the larger sniper. Booth drags his eyes up to the visage of the other man, already calculating angles and means of attack. Exit strategies, if necessary. Ways to defend the other soldier's from this ox blocking his path, should it come to that…_

_A thousand scenarios tear through his mind in the span of a few seconds. _This_… is why they sent him._

_He's the best at killing, though Cortman would like to think otherwise. He doesn't enjoy it, doesn't revel in its dirty adrenaline rush. But he's about to get some small satisfaction out of this altercation. __He just wants his damn shower before the operation tomorrow. He's tired of scratching sand out of his scalp. Tired of picking blood from under his fingernails. _Tired_… of people mentioning his father._

"_Think you're making Daddy proud?" Cortman leans closer, voice lowering dangerously into a mocking deadpan. "Laying the place to waste like some monster archangel? Pounding on guerillas in the jungle?" _

_And there it is._

_Cortman tenses when he realizes he hadn't even registered the rapidly provoked sleeping dog in the reticent Sergeant when Booth's right hand closes around his throat with fierce determination. Suddenly Cortman's back is pressed against the wall while the tip of a knife is pressed against his ribs._

"_This how it's gonna be, Benny?" Booth grills quietly, brown eyes suddenly black and hard as onyx. _

_Cortman's knuckles crack, fingers curling into fists, but he stays still, green eyes clashing against the building storm. Challenging. _

"_What the hell is going on now?" a booming voice suddenly commands every attention of the Hall. __Only Booth doesn't turn at the voice of Sergeant Major Harris. __Absorbing the situation, the ranking officer takes a step forward, voice lowering but the volume not following suit. "Cortman, I suggest you back off of whatever altercation you've aggravated into play unless you want Booth to drive that Swiss home. Clean it up, boys," Harris addresses them all, then. "Curfew's in ten minutes."_

_Raising his hands slightly in forfeit, Cortman gives an abhorrent nod at the man with the knife aimed into his gut. Without pause, Booth retracts the blade, darkened gaze penetrating his adversary. Never breaking eye contact._

"_Get the hell out of my way, Cortman."_ _But it sounds more like_ Stay the hell out of my way_. Booth has issued a warning of his own._

_Glaring his resentment, Cortman huffs out a careless breath, brushing past him and moving on. __Determined to achieve that shower, Booth heads for the back room with fierce resolve. The kid bounces up to him in loyal younger sibling fashion, nudging him without forethought subtlety._

"_No worries, Sarge. Guy's a Bob Tail in the making, anyway." _

"_Save it, Teddy," Booth reprimands halfheartedly. "Get to your bunk, we've got an early morning at the dunes tomorrow and I'm not wasting a bucket of my shower water in waking you up." _

"_You got it," Corporal Edward Parker, Booth's young spotter, nods dutifully. "I'll be ready, Sarge, don't sweat it."_

_With that, the kid's off with enough energy to fight the whole damn war himself. Jogging out of the Hall entrance and into the night. Sour mood still withstanding, Booth nevertheless allows a lax smile to tip his lips at his eager comrade._

* * *

Now they ride in comfortable exchange, damp hair and clothing suctioned to their skin, a lighthearted bicker thrown into the mix in random succession. The truck approaches a short bridge to its left, which leads off toward an old bank. Another small congregation of birds flutter in a squawking huddle as Booth's carefree driving nearly runs them off the road.

"Listen, uh…" he begins, throwing a glance over at his partner who's calmly snacking on a granola bar. "I don't want a surprise party or anything, alright?"

The passive seriousness to his tone nearly leaves her choking on her bite. She hides her appreciative chuckle behind her hand and turns her attention away from him and out the window. "I'm afraid you're a little late to be making requests."

They only have a few more errands to tend to before returning home, and she's told him to make a stop by the lab to pick up a few things as well. While this is true, she also wants to buy some time in order to make him something special. Though the lab is a mausoleum, she's positive she can find something within the large expanse of the abandoned building to formulate a gift.

"Well," he shrugs. "I guess if you want to throw one, that'd be cool." He tosses her a toothy smile. "I'll act surprised."

If she'd been certain she could become no more endeared to him than she already was, she's thoroughly mistaken. She's about to respond with a wily comeback when she jolts in her seat, attributable to him slamming on the brakes without warning. The tires screech and leftover luggage jostles loudly in the back seats.

After her heart settles back into her chest where it belongs, she shoots him a questioning glance. His full attention is locked far to their left, after he'd done a severe double take. Her confusion quickly molds into concern. "Booth? What is it?" she's anxious to know, feeling slightly unnerved. Before she knows what's happening, he's shoving the Tahoe into reverse and peeling backwards in the direction they've come. "Booth…"

Arriving at an abrupt halt, he spins the wheel, turning onto the bridge they'd passed. He aims the truck straight ahead at the large bank building, engine revving. "You see it too, right?" She's startled by the way his voice shakes, a man in control of everything at all times. He's _scared_. "I'm not just freaking out, am I? Right, Bones? You _see_ him?"

His frantic raving is frightening her. Her pulse quickens exponentially. "Booth, what are you… oh my God," she trails off in barely contained shock at the sight that greets them as they close in on the large, broken edifice.

Directly in front of the ornate bank structure, is Fred.

"Mannequins don't go for walks," Booth maintains, his voice half an octave higher in baffled alarm.

Brennan can only stare in mute astonishment. Parking the vehicle behind a fallen street sign, Booth slams the engine into park and shoves open the door, jumping out and stalking towards the well-dressed dummy. Snatches the Remington from the backseat before exiting. She climbs out just after him, worried expression marring her face. An unsteady chill settles directly over her lumbar curve. Suddenly, the city seems unnaturally quiet–even quieter than usual.

Her clear eyes dart over their environs, as if expecting something to leap out at them. Even though they're surrounded by a wide and open expanse.

"What the hell are you doing out here, Fred?" Booth's demanding shout wrenches her back to the dilemma at hand, its echo haunting. "Goddammit! What the hell is going on?"

"Booth," she calls to him, quickening her pace to catch up. "Stop!"

"_No_," he snaps, spinning on his heel to face her, expression stormy. Desperation clouds his voice. "No! Bones, I didn't _move_ him!"

"Well, neither did I!" she stresses back, feeling herself begin to lose control along with her partner. A trick of the light certainly could have fooled any solitary man or woman, but…

Whirling back on the lone figure a short jaunt ahead, Booth snaps the bolt on his rifle and takes aim. "Fred!" It's loud, demanding and carrying across the block. He draws closer, moving past a battered taxi cab to his right leaning against the edge of the bridge, frontend tilted up at a thirty degree angle. "If you're real, Fred, you'd better say something!"

Fred's bright orange hoodie billows lazily in response.

Though his focus is directed strictly upon the hooded figure ahead, he hears his partner coming up behind him. He doesn't like to think he's going crazy, and defends himself that he's not. He knows Fred the Mannequin is indeed a lifeless statue. What he isn't certain of, however, is that perhaps a real live person has taken Fred's favorite hoodie and decided to play chicken with a Remington M-24 fully automatic sniper rifle.

If this be the case, he has to deal with the current revelation that they are not alone–that a _human being_ is before them, and maybe just as freaked as they are. If this is _not_ a real person who enjoys lifting hoodies off of creepy mannequins, he has to deal with the even more daunting idea that Fred–a plastic mannequin–occasionally goes sightseeing.

He waits another minute in silence, which feels more closely to a year. No human being could maintain absolute stillness for that amount of time. He should know–he'd trained to be the perfect statue. And also, the passing glare of sunshine off the individual's plastic face finally gives it away.

He feels a surge of angry fear course through him and he begins unloading rounds into the unthreatening figure. Bullets confirm their impact with loud _paks_ against the uncaring mannequin, and before long, one arm drops from the rest of the torso. It's followed almost immediately by the upper half entirely. What remains of Fred topples over into the murky puddle in which he'd been standing.

"_Dammit_!" Booth swears, hearing Brennan's pleading voice in the back of his mind as he lowers the rifle. He raises a trembling hand to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Booth!" He feels her hand on his arm. Pulling himself from the blackness and opening his eyes, he finds himself staring back into hers. The perfect shade calms him almost immediately, and her soothing words, rapid and trembling, only aid him further. Her voice is hushed, fighting to placate him. "Booth, there's a rational explanation–there _has_ to be. I promise you, we'll figure it out. But right now, I need you to calm down." He shies away, wincing. Unable to tear his eyes away from Fred. Moisture welling, desperation escalating, she seizes his face. Forcing his eyes on hers. "Booth. _Please_," she insists, looking up at him beseechingly.

His breaths come in shallow bursts, but he nods, easing under her touch. "Alright," he says, voice hoarse. Tension still coiled beneath the surface, though lessening. "Alright." Closing his eyes, he exhales heavily, shooting a glace back in the direction of the bank building before turning back to her. "I'm sorry…"

"It's okay," she assures him, comprehending his obvious distress and understandable loss of control. Her own hands still shake with confused apprehension.

He gives a distracted nod and moves away from her slightly. Begins to pace.

Stilling and taking a deep, settling breath, he turns slowly back toward the bank and moves forward, if a little cautiously. He feels her come up closely behind him, peering over his shoulder. "Just… stay back," he advises her quietly, not turning around, but holding a staying hand out before her. "Bones, alright?"

She does as he asks, too distracted to do anything else, and feels her heartbeat pounding within her ribcage as they approach their fallen ally.

His rifle is snug against his shoulder. She feels a nervous rise in her chest as he slows to a stop, looming over the pile of plastic–receiving no reaction from the dismembered mannequin. What remains of Fred is roughly three parts, held together crudely by articles of clothing. Flashy sweatshirt begins to soak up some of the puddle's water, and lifeless eyes stare up into the sky. A heap of blasted mannequin is all that is seen here.

Barely a minute passes in silence and, relaxing slightly, Booth slowly lowers his weapon. He takes a step closer, into the puddle.

_Click. _

There's a pause, as if the very air around them has solidified.

A large weight sinks in his middle, a shudder racing up his spine. Brennan feels her body freeze. Behind them, a heavy metallic moan sounds the warning. They each glance over their shoulders as the taxi cab slowly begins to tip over the edge of the bridge, then plummets.

Her startlingly blue eyes meet his russet ones in a clash of uncertainty and fear.

She knows it's too late.

"Booth–"

He only has a split second to shove her out of harm's way. Though instinctive, it's mostly unnecessary. Before he can jump back, the snare is already closing around his ankle and jerking him viciously off his feet and into the air. He sees stars when the back of his skull connects with the concrete and suddenly, he's airborne.

His rifle clatters to the street. The taxi nosedives into the ground below the bridge. He whirs to a stop well-above her reach, her frantic cries sending ringing bolts through his ears, merging with the throbbing pain and his swimming vision.

As he tries to fight against the dark cloud quickly overtaking his senses, her voice sounds strange to him–like she's calling him from a great distance. He feels a hot moisture soaking into his dark hair. Hears the drip in the puddle like a muffled thunderclap, his blood turning the water crimson.

Her voice fades entirely, drowned out by the rushing in his ears. His lashes flutter.

Everything goes black.


	21. Forced to Watch You fall

******Author's Note: Didn't have to wait too long for the cliffy conclusion.**

**********Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile!**

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**CHAPTER TWENTY  
**FORCED TO WATCH YOU FALL

*

_I'll never leave you, but fate has come to silence me  
Darkness is all that I see  
I cannot reach you, and soon the earth will cover me  
It's become so hard to breathe  
Your caught but not forgot  
Another hero lost_

_The sorrow builds with every passing  
All the lessons that you taught  
When all would light you bright_

-Shadows Fall-

* * *

Awareness slowly comes back. He registers pain.

Hears two things. The first is a sound, a voice. He can't quite make out the words yet, but somehow he knows they're important. He struggles to focus on the voice, that tangible anchor. _Her_ voice. Blurrily distant, calling to him. She sounds afraid.

Bones is afraid. He fights harder against the thick oblivion.

The second thing he hears is a rather incessant beeping. A hot pain throbs in the back of his head. Everything is dark, until he realizes he can open his eyes. Slowly, the darkness recedes. He blinks sluggishly as consciousness returns. He half-expects the light to send a spear of agony shooting through his skull, but it doesn't. There are shadows… too many shadows for what should be bright and warm.

The first thing he notices is that he's upside-down. Odd, and confusing. He blinks slowly, feeling deeply disoriented, and tries to focus on her voice again to pull him through the fog. Coming out of it slightly, he shifts in his suspended location, mumbling a groan. "Bones…"

"I'm here, Booth," answers Brennan, directly below him. There's a concerned catch to her voice that he doesn't understand. "But I can't reach you." As if it's the most despairing thing she's ever said.

That's right. He's hanging upside-down.

Cringing, he can barely discern her from the chaos beneath his skull. He has to dispel that annoying beep. Each quivering pulse causes a miniature firework show to light off behind his eyes. It makes it exceptionally difficult to concentrate only on her. At least he feels considerably less faint. He can blink now without needing to engage in battle to keep his eyes open.

His watch won't shut up.

_Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep. _

He wants to shoot the damned thing, but settles for turning it off.

Jerking up slightly, he rallies his strength to form a glance upward at what holds him so uncomfortably captive and instantly regrets it. He grimaces, stilling so that the pain might follow suit. Inhales shakily, eyes wiring shut against the sudden onslaught.

"Booth?" She stirs anxiously against his silence.

He waves a weak hand at her. "I'm all right… 'M okay…" He lets his posture hang slack, looking over at the faraway setting sun. Her pressing words of encouragement and urgency fill him as he gropes about his waistline, searching. Finding the pocketknife, he tugs it free and switches the sable blade out of its sheathe. Steeling his aching muscles, he curls up, reaching with his other hand to grip the back of his captive knee. He stretches with the knife blade for the cable around his ankle.

In one quick torrent of fatigue, he sags back down. Takes a breath.

"Are you all right?"

"I got it, Bones. My head just feels like it's ready to implode." Heaving a sigh, he reaches back up again. He feels the drowsiness fading from his system. Obtaining a stronger grip, now more determined and aware, he begins to saw at the cable.

He's too focused on his current task to dwell on the biggest question running through both their minds. Though neither speaks a word of it, both are wondering the same thing.

What the hell had just happened?

"It'll hurt when you fall." There's a sympathetic balk to her face.

"Yeah," Booth snorts. "That'll be the icing on the cake. Most likely got a concussion, might as well add a bruised ass to the mix."

She laughs nervously, feeling a healthy portion of her worry dissipate at his making light of the situation. "I'll try to catch you," she offers meekly. "Break your fall as best I can."

He's about to ask that she not get herself injured because of his idiocy when the cable snaps and suddenly, he's dropping. She does well to slow his fall, just as she'd said, catching him below the shoulders on his back and chest and hitting the ground with him. Though his landing is less than graceful–he feels his teeth rattle with the hard impact–he's more than relieved to feel none of his bones break.

At least, not the most important one. A tightness seizes at his chest when she buries her face into his collar and screams.

"What? What's wrong?" Entangled in each other's arms on the damp and soiled street, he fights to locate the source of her pain. Voice taut with concern, panic mounting. "Bones, what happened?" She pulls back from him with a whimper, cringing, looking at the foundation of her motor function. Imbedded in her outer right thigh is the knife's blade. It had broken free of the handle during the rough landing. "Oh God!"

She labors through a gasp of pain, shaking her head. "Booth, it–it's okay..."

"Bones, Jesus–" Sitting up at a more agreeable angle, he cradles her back with one arm and reaches forward with the other. He rambles off in a panic of apologies and medical inquiries.

"It's not as bad as it looks," she reassures through shallow breaths, lovely face contorted. "I think it only broke the first and second layer of the epidermis. I'll be fine." She touches the protruding section with a tentative hand, hissing upon contact. "I shouldn't remove it, though. Not until we get home." The pain lacing her voice breaks his heart. As if his guilt today couldn't be topped. She inhales deeply, closing her eyes and leaning against his shoulder for support. "Happy birthday," she laughs faintly.

Booth groans, intensely sickened. "Totally antiquated ritual which apparently only brings about bad luck. I'll pass." He brings his other arm around her, looking back at the darkening sky. The late evening insects and wildlife can already be heard. "Here, let me help you up. I can carry you."

But Brennan has stilled completely.

He can feel her entire frame ice over in his arms. He glances down. Her expression looks fearful, complexion noticeably whiter. Her gaze is locked straight ahead of them, past the snare, and into the dark cavern that leads into the damaged façade of the bank building. Bars and railings are bent back, twisted, glass shattered. Broken shards have collected over the threshold. The small hand which had so calmly rested upon his forearm now involuntarily tightens its grip. Almost painful, as she clings to the contact. She's terrified, so naturally he's become hugely murderous at whatever has put that expression on her beautiful face.

The echoing bark of a dog sounds from within the black hole.

Booth becomes instantly alert, rigid with pulsing instinct. An icy claw closes around his spine. Brown eyes are suddenly black, focused intently on the gateway looming just strides away. The hostile bark is seconded by another, and another, and eventually develops into a single dark chorus of rumbling growls.

"We have to go," Booth says tightly.

She grips shakily at his jacket, pulse pounding, in full agreement. He stumbles upright and hauls her quickly to her feet. She cries out, unable to stand on her own, swaying unsteadily and holding onto him for balance. "Booth," she whispers, sinking against him.

"I've got you." Wasting no time, he stoops down and lifts her into his arms. With her clinging to him, he takes a step forward, biting back a moan at his own exhaustion. A flash of pain shoots up his right leg, which is numb and aching from the abuse of the cable snare. His head pounds mercilessly. Every so often, he sees a flurry of colorful spots impeding his vision. This is unimportant, however. He can still see shapes, and the large bulk of the Tahoe is easily discernable. That's all he needs.

He'd made quite a distance when he halts without warning, looking back.

"What? Booth, what?"

He's forgotten his weapon in the puddle. "My gun…"

Hesitation is countered by striking desperation.

"Don't you dare go back," she warns, begs.

"We may need it." His eyes bore into hers, and she knows he's right.

He finds himself fighting with decision. They don't have many weapons with them, and they just may need every one they can get. Snapping his attention to the truck, the driver's door still hanging open, and then back to the forgotten weapon, he sets his jaw. They don't have time for him to think it over. _She_ doesn't have time.

Shifting his weight onto his unprotesting leg, he sets her down gently and looks her in the eyes. "You get yourself to the truck–do you hear me?" She nods quickly. "I have a .38 under the steering column. You get it and lock yourself in. I'll be right behind you."

His voice leaves no debate. Her own shakes considerably. "Alright."

With that, he's running back for the weapon.

Unable to hold any weight on her injured leg without feeling a violent surge of agony, she quickly lowers herself to the ground. Sitting flat and facing away from the vehicle, she pushes herself back with her hands and left leg, repeating the motion. Creating a sound pattern of retreat. Booth dashes across the only remaining beam of sunlight between the Tahoe and the bank building. Reaching the puddle in which his weapon lay, he's about to scoop it up when he sees a shadow move within the abandoned stone and metal.

Stepping out from the encompassing darkness is the alpha male Infected, the same who had run out at them when capturing the human specimen. Its sickly face is hard and sunken into a glower. Strong and muscular arms strain from underneath the shredded army jacket, and it isn't long before Booth realizes why.

On each arm is a full grown hunting dog, held roughly by the scruff of the neck. Large muscles slide and constrict in their bulking canine shoulders–enhanced by KV. He can't be sure if they're German Shepherds or Dobermans, beneath their nearly hairless hides. They bark and growl in anticipation, snapping their salivating jaws. Eyes wild with rabid ferocity. Deeper into the shadows, Booth sees a fourth shape, much larger but indiscernible, pacing from behind the Infected with its menacing gray eyes glowing.

Without warning, the Infected releases the animals. They spring forward with lunging speed. Booth snatches up the rifle and pivots, breaking for his partner and the Tahoe's saving grace. She hasn't made it to the vehicle yet.

He can almost feel the snarling mongrels at his heels. Crossing over the remaining shaft of light, however, and the first dog skids to a frantic halt, yelping under the sun's scorching touch. The shaft is becoming narrower by the second as the sun begins to disappear behind a tall building far from the bridge. But it does buy them some time.

The two dogs snap and bark just shy of the golden ray, paws never at rest. They crouch eagerly, waiting to pounce. Bare their rotten teeth in anticipation, dark blue veins pulsing under the meaty, transparent flesh.

"Bones! Get in the truck!" he shouts as he runs for her. She's nearly there. Ducking under the fallen street sign, she rolls over onto her front and begins to crawl forward as swiftly as she can.

The sun is gone.

Emitting sharp howls, the two Infected dogs surge forward, angry calls reaching deafening volume. Rounding, Booth singles the larger one out and begins unloading shots into the charging threat. Some make contact with the evasive target while others ricochet off the pavement under it. It's darker, harder for him to see. The crosshairs are nearly lost in the sights. Before the beast can fall, the chamber clicks empty. He'd wasted all his damn bullets on Fred.

The second canine dashes past him.

"Brennan!"

Ducking under the door, she reaches in and feels around frantically for the .38. Just as she pulls her hand back, she sees the animal leaping at her, teeth bared. She nearly empties the clip into it by the time it's on top of her, claws scraping against the concrete and snapping its jaws. She struggles to hold the weakened predator back, reaching blindly for her lost weapon. It's significantly stronger than she, despite being wounded, and she doesn't have much energy left herself.

Its jaws dangerously close to her face, her arms burn from the unrelenting pressure. She twists her face away, squirming under the dog. While she can't become anymore infected than she already is, this animal can certainly kill her. And in a moment or two, her strength will give out and it will.

Suddenly, though, it's gone.

One second it had been atop her, and the next, it isn't. She'd only seen a flash of black in-between. The dogs aren't the only predators here tonight. Darting her eyes to the left, she sees Booth and the dog tumble to the ground and roll away. He'd tackled it, forced into the pavement with brutal grace. Her heart leaps into her throat as she struggles upright. "Booth!"

She reaches for her gun, scooping it up and watching as her partner and the infected dog wrestle just yards away. Taking up an aim, she bites back a frustrated cry. She can't get a shot without possibly hitting him. Out of nowhere, she's slammed back into the ground again. The second dog growls from above her. Though Booth had shot it, it's still as powerful as any normal canine, its brain too damaged by adrenaline to tell it it's been hurt.

Just as she's about to feel its jaws in her throat, her fist collides with its snout. Fingers closing around the saving metal, she draws up her gun and aims. In a flash, its teeth close around her wrist and wrench the weapon from her hand, sending it away. Red blurs her vision momentarily as she chances a look to her left. She watches as Booth rolls onto his back and snaps the first dog's neck.

Feeling a tentative wave of relief wash over her, she flinches away from the animal yet causing her grief. Struggling, she sees Booth get to his feet, but shouts his name as a third dog–the largest–at last comes out of hiding and leaps onto his back with a fierce bark, forcing Booth to the ground.

"_No!_" Her scream of sorrow meets the echo of the vicious growls. Tears spring into her eyes. Judging by its size and build, it's a Great Dane. If the particular breed had a shoulder height of only thirty-two inches, the dog was considered small. Choking back a cry, she has to use all her dwindling strength to hold the biting canine back and away from her face.

She can hear the struggle far off to her left and forces back the rising sobs, a great anguish curling around her heart. She's weaponless, pinned, and helpless to aid him…

…no. She's only two of those things.

She has a weapon.

Gritting her teeth in determination, she gathers all her might, holding the dog back with one staying hand, and reaches for her right thigh with the other. With a cry, she rips the broken blade from her leg and drives it up into the dog's throat. It's silenced immediately, sagging on top of her. She labors frantically under the dead weight, shoving it off of herself with aching limbs. She releases a trembling gasp, finally able to breathe again and rolls over onto her side, tears in her eyes as she searches for her gun.

But he's already upright. When he sees her relieved of the large animal, he stills.

She looks over in time to see him staggering to his feet, a large army knife in his bloody grip. The Great Dane lies just feet behind him, motionless and scarred.

She breathes a sob, turning darkly shattered eyes to Booth, taking in his battered appearance. A deep laceration is torn into his shoulder–the mark of teeth. Claw patterns travel along the side of his face, the blood reaching past his jaw. Even through the black of his clothing, the dark moisture soaking him is evident. He can barely stand. Yet he'd been going for her–to defend her.

Seeing now that she's safe, the knife slips from his fingers, clanking against the street. After a moment, he nearly doubles over. Sways dangerously.

"Booth," she sobs, struggling to her feet. Suddenly, she can't breathe again. Ignoring the fiery pain igniting in her leg, she limps over to him with tears shining on her cheeks. Face contorted in grief.

It's quiet now. She has not known Hell.

He winces, feeling a deep ache assaulting him from every possible direction. The world is spinning, eyes slip out of focus. "Bones," he manages out, pain lacing his voice. The strength of it fades, until it's merely a lissome anomaly in the evening wind. "Have to get you home..."

He tries to find the energy to ask if she's all right, but can't summon the words. His step falters, and he collapses in her arms just as she reaches him, the both of them sinking to the street. The light is severely dimming now. She has to get him out of there.

His hand repeatedly slips from hers as his strength starts to dwindle. His head is down and his breathing is measured. He's losing so much blood...

Crying, she holds him. "You're all right… you're all right…" she whispers, her voice faint and trembling. She can barely see him through her tears. It's too much like déjà vu. It's gripping, and it's intense.

_Idiot!_ she thinks furiously, without shame, forcing back the sobs rising in her throat. Has he no reverence for his own life?! _Why, why, why?!_

He'd saved her. Again.

What hurts the most is that it's possibly that last time he ever will.

* * *

Success.

It watches from the shadowed seclusion of the bank, gray eyes narrowing in feral satisfaction. The sheep is now without a shepherd. Now, the wolf could seek the lamb.

Now, It can seek Her.

_Mother_.

* * *

_Is this how you were found?  
Like a star fallen to the ground  
As you fall you make no sound  
As you fall, wish for a place  
Where you want to be lying still  
In my dreams I see you falling down_

-As You Fall-


	22. Things too Lost to Save

****

******Author's Note: Sorry for the wait. Had a going away party for my friend last night. Got to bed at a rather ungodly hour. Guh.**

**********Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile!**

* * *

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE  
**THINGS TOO LOST TO SAVE

*

_It doesn't hurt me  
You want to feel how it feels?  
You don't want to hurt me, but see how deep the bullet lies  
Unaware that I'm tearing you asunder  
There's thunder in our hearts  
Come on, angel, come on, come on  
Let me steal this moment from you now_

_And if I only could make a deal with God  
Get Him to swap our places  
Be running up that road, running up that hill  
Be running up that building  
If only I could_

-Placebo-

* * *

_She's certain it's the worst moment of her life. Though her rampant mind seeks to cling to any possible sliver of hope, in the end, the conclusion is always inescapably the same. _

_She constrains her movements into a robotic autopilot. Battles an internal war. __She can barely persuade herself to breathe, has to focus on the simple task alone while the remainder of her body labors to get him first to the vehicle, and then safely home. __Amongst it all, she must run through his routine to nauseating extremes in her mind, so that she might not forget anything vital. _

_Not to park by the house. Expel any traces of blood. This includes scent–she'll have to douse the area with ammonia. This is the most important. The Infected don't know where they live. Barricade all entrance points. _

_It's too much. No matter how hard she tries, she's unable to concentrate on their–_his_, she reminds herself–constructed protocol._

He's not gone, he's not gone, he's not gone… _She gasps suddenly for air, apparently unable to even recall how to breathe. Isn't your body supposed to do that on its own?_

_She blinks away fresh tears, still victim of shock. She's too diverted to even notice the way her injured leg flares with pain. Too many things assail her all at once. _

Breathe, Temperance.

_In. Out. _

_It's his voice, somehow, speaking to her. A small conciliation._

_As she tries to remember this, he shifts beside her when the truck makes a dangerous turn. He's slumped low and drifting in and out of consciousness. He's losing blood, fast. As she tries to transfer between her focus of him and the road, her hand searches him out, closing over his arm. Attempting to reach him in whatever way possible._

"_Stay with me." _

_It's a plea, an order, a prayer. She needs him to fight._ Hold on_, her touch tells him._ Please please please, hold on...

_She's at last found her voice–though only able to utter vague and sometimes incoherent sentences. If the words form a sentence at all. She drives now at eyebrow-raising speeds, racing for home. _

_Home is where he'll be safe. __If she can just get him there, she can stem the flow of blood and dress his wounds and everything will be fine. He'll be fine. She just needs to get him home, to their shared refuge. Her mind keeps relaying this over and over in her head, sometimes spilling from her lips. _

_He'll be fine. _

_Everything will be okay._

_She just has to get him home._

_In this scenario, there's always that tiniest flicker of hope she can cling to. _

* * *

_**August 21**__**st**__**, 2010**_

A shroud.

Everything is dark. A single, great, suffocating shadow fells him, interweaving with his thoughts. Sounds are distorted and incomplete. For a moment, he believes he's upside-down again. When he tries to move, he instantly stills, burdened by the overwhelming tautness of his muscles. Everything aches, and he can't recall why. Brow creasing tiredly, he slowly blinks open his eyes and finds himself squinting up into a bright, luminescent light.

Governmental experiment program? He'd better have gotten x-ray vision and a batmobile or he's going to be pissed.

Wincing, he shifts more comfortably and discovers he's stretched out onto an exam table. But instead of the icy coolness he expects, he feels the warmth of the blanket layers beneath him. He briefly considers this to be a dream. He can't recall how many nightmares he's had of being one of his partner's desiccated remains. The rather alleviating fleece and cotton seem to cancel out the possibility, however. Raising his hand to his face is a chore, and he rubs his eyes.

"You're awake."

Her quiet voice slightly startles him. His head falls to the side to find her standing still against the wall, in a small corner not far from him, curled in on herself. Her arms are folded tightly over her chest, and despite the vulnerable posture, she looks quite relieved to see him cognizant. He feels a pang in his chest at the look her eyes carry. She's been worried. It doesn't look as though she's slept at all.

He realizes he hasn't said anything then because her voice prods him gently through the metal fog. "Do you remember what happened?"

Grunting, he tries to sit up on the padded table. He's clad only in his black cargos and muscle shirt. There's a large bandage covering his right shoulder. The side of his face burns slightly when he reaches up and runs a hand through his hair. Tentatively, he touches his fingers to his cheek, feeling the undressed wound. There are a few other abrasions on his form, but nothing severe.

"Everything's fuzzy," he replies, wincing at the hoarseness of his voice. He can't understand why only bits and pieces return to him, and he's also noticed his vision to be slightly distorted under the low basement lighting. Despite being dry and parched, he's frustrated that he seems to be faintly slurring his words. "There's not much pain, though. I feel okay aside from the hangover-y part, minus the headache."

Despite the wave of grogginess that hasn't seemed to pass, he suspects he shouldn't be able to move about so effortlessly as he is.

"That's because I've loaded you up with painkillers."

There's a slight upturn to her lips that provokes one of his own.

"Oh," he says, in a spectacular display of eloquence. He blames the drugs. He's never responded well to medication.

"And you shouldn't aggravate that cut." Nodding at the facial injury he's inspecting, she goes on. "We're out of butterfly bandages, so I couldn't dress it properly. It stopped bleeding though, so I think it may be fine. And your drug haze should wear off soon."

He huffs a short laugh, already feeling some of the effects percolating. Things are starting to come back to him as well, now that he's awake and aware. Fragments. He can tell by the deliberate way Brennan shuns awareness of the largest injury on his form that the topic will not be initiated by her.

"Sorry about the… less than accommodating space," she says quietly, barely audible even in the tacit space, speaking of the exam table. "I tried to make it more comfortable."

"It's fine," he replies softly, catching her gaze, attempting to hold it. He ducks his head when she looks away. Swallowing hard, his stare eventually falls on the bandage over his shoulder inflicted by the infected canine's teeth. It isn't his current location that concerns him.

A sobering silence descends over the room, and despite the fleeting trace of fear that tugs at him, he knows he wouldn't take anything back. Dragging his eyes back to her, he notices her hands shaking a little. She looks deep in hooded reflection. Tentatively, he braves the unknown. "So… what now?"

She visibly tenses at his unavoidable question, knowing it has to be addressed. A range of emotions travel through her, and she feels her throat seize up. Her arms tighten their hold around herself. Forcing her eyes to meet his, she releases the breath she's been holding. "Now," she says, still in a world of her own, a barely discernable fracture to her voice, "we wait."

He nods distractedly, looking down at his hands. A gloomy ache wraps around her heart.

"Booth." He looks up as she struggles for the words, voice slightly choked. "You're… your case is unique. There's a decent chance that… that you'll be unaffected. The likelihood is slightly more than fifty, in your favor." She's rambling–grasping–and she knows it. He knows it. But that doesn't stop her from trying.

There's a quieter silence that breaks the calm.

"Are you sure?" The timid hopefulness behind his spoken reply causes another swirl of grief to overcome her. A lump forms in her throat, and she tears her eyes away from his and locks them fiercely on the floor. She could kick him she's so furious–so shattered internally. _Always so damn protective…_

He says nothing. And though her leg still throbs severely–she's made sure he'd received the majority of the pain medication–she remains standing and still in the slight corner. Refusing to look at him. It takes another minute more for her to find her voice, so quiet he can't be sure she'd even spoken. But he knows her well enough.

"You saved me." Accusing.

"I'd do it again." Fierce, adamant. The gentle force behind his words warrants her focus back on him.

She stares at him. Shakes her head only a fraction, voice soft and void of malice. She's so tired, defeated. "Fool."

It's a moment they share, eyes pouring answers and questions–not always matching, not always completed. But it's them.

"…Maybe," he relents finally. There is no regret, only surrendered agreement. He's tired of fighting it.

He knows she's upset with him. And though he might be dreading what lay ahead, he wants to make damn sure that this is straight. He would sacrifice himself for her in a heartbeat. No looking back. No hesitation. If he has to die so that she can live, so be it. He is a fool for her.

Her eyes shine in the low light, lips pressed tightly together. Knowing she can only accept his loyal devotion–what's done is done–she battles down the instinctive urge to throw her arms around him. It's only natural for them. One would grieve and the other would comfort, sometimes both comforting and grieving at the same time. But this is different. If she hugs him now… it will be because she knows he's already lost.

She won't surrender yet. And she knows he won't either. There's still hope left. And if that hope were to fade, it isn't a close embrace Seeley Booth needs.

It's a cure.

Brennan relinquishes being angry with him, for now at least. She realizes that, if given the chance, she would only have done the same. As she turns her attention on the many beakers and research data littered amongst the room, it's his heartening voice that breaks through her distanced thoughts. "You did great, Bones," he says, gazing at her in calm assurance. Conveying his praise. "Handling yourself. Taking care of things. I'm proud of you."

There's a lifting in her chest, fresh emotion in her eyes. Nodding, she fiddles with her hands nervously before addressing him. She doesn't want to do this. "I'll go out today and take the routine. You're still injured so–"

"So are you," he reminds softly. "I can manage it. I'll go with you."

"Booth…"

A pleading look appears behind his eyes that he struggles to mask. "Temperance, I can't stay here."

And there it is.

The scientific haven will crush him. All the technical hums and unending bleeps joined by the unavoidable question yet unanswered will drive him mad. Hospitals had always left him mentally broken. He needs to be distracted. He wants to be with her.

She closes her mouth as an understanding calm sweeps over her features.

"I can't just lie here and…" Swallowing hard, his trepidation prominent, he goes on in a quieter voice. "I don't want to think. I just want to go out there and carry out the day. Live our life–with you. That's what I want." Knowing the gravity his words hold, combined with the look of tension on her face, he quickly lightens the topic. "Just like every other day. C'mon, I'll take you hunting." A pale comparison to his natural charm lights up his handsome face, earning a brief twinkle in her eyes for his effort. "Two handicaps are better than one."

After a time, the small glimmer melds into a real smile, brightening her face. It doesn't reach her eyes, but it's something.

* * *

As they prepare for the day–her nursing her hitched footing and him gingerly pulling on his coat–she watches as he loads up his pack.

"I suppose you'll need another gun," she presumes sympathetically.

In the scramble to get to safety, she'd forgotten his weapon lying only feet away. Her only concern had been him. Though she supposes they can easily go back for it, he speaks up before she can say so. "I'd just decided on a name, too," he sighs regrettably.

"For the gun?" She tries to hide her smile with limited success.

A grin splits the side of his face and he glances at her over his shoulder. "Athena."

"The one I suggested?" She's surprised. A flattered yet puzzled glow rises in her cheeks. "But, I thought you liked Jackie?"

Slinging his pack over his shoulder, he shrugs noncommittally at the name he'd favored. "Eh. You liked Athena."

_Give and take, Bones_, she can almost hear him say.

He moves past her, his hand reflexively falling to her lower back to guide her forward through the door. Though it's habit, he's certain this time she just may need assistance because of her leg.

And suddenly she's numb.

Unwittingly, the blood drains from her face. Breath hitching painfully. She tries not to notice when he visibly flinches under the sudden light of the sun as they exit the house. A sinking ache develops in her abdomen, a cramping in her chest. He pretends as though it's nothing, but she'd caught the way his step had faltered that brief second. It only and ever always takes a second. She knows him too well.

_Too well. _

She half-expects him to utter some lax explanation such as: _It's bright out_. But he doesn't bother. He knows her eyes are like hawks'. Arctic and swift. And they're penetrating him now.

Instead, he silently places his sunglasses over his eyes, jaw set and brow drawn. His face betrays no emotion. The sunglasses hide his eyes, leaving his gaze opaque in a way that disquiets her. She presumes he knows she'd only call out any formulated excuse he might conjure. Despite this upsetting discovery, she follows him out into the light. The acceptance of kismet and the breaking of hearts will come with nightfall.

The day will be theirs.

But she knows. He hadn't flinched because of the brightness. He'd flinched because of the light itself.

* * *

The alerting newscast informs billions across the globe:

"_Routine quarantine sweeps will be made every seventy-two hours. You are urged to stay indoors. If you, or any member of your family, begin displaying symptoms associated with the Krippin Virus, we ask that you contact the authorities immediately. _

_Symptoms and signs of the infection include: discomfort under ultraviolet light exposure, sallow and sickly complexion, fever, desaturation of the eyes, aggression, unhealthily elevated heart rate, intense tachypnea, extreme flesh translucency, spasms of nervous system control, spasms of mental control, spasms of severe adrenaline, abnormally heightened strength, delusions and mental confusion, lack of rational thought and recurring forgetfulness. _

_Any of these signs in a subject will eventually lead to complete loss of memory and knowledge of personal identity. The subject will become hostile and instinctive, and they will seek to feed. _

_Again, we beg any sufferers of these symptoms to turn themselves in to their local sanatoriums. God help us all." _

* * *

Their last day is perfect. They make certain of that, at least in manners they can achieve.

Come tomorrow, it will be utterly impossible for him to venture outdoors into the sunlight. Despite being injured and broken, they give it their all. Hunting and chasing and waiting together, a calming picnic at their favorite diner, a visit to her mother's grave, and lastly, he takes her to the Jeffersonian. Where everything still makes sense. Where their family's presence still lingers, comforts.

It's a past life. Never forgotten, forever mourned.

It had been them. So long ago, that the time once spent here in tandem feels only a dream.

They sit and watch the many tropical fish they'd released into a large aquarium, larger than any sport utility vehicle. The lights have been switched off, the aquatic blue reflections dancing off their faces, running patterns across their eyes. A spectrum of softened and promising hues, always and forever changing direction.

They gaze in silent tranquility from the divan found in the Egyptian exhibit. The muted glow and unconcerned sea life going about their floating provides a cathartic calm, soothing them both. Brennan leans against him wordlessly, relaxing into lulled contentment when she feels his arm curl around her gently and draw her closer. She reaches for his hand, covers it with her own. She's thankful when he doesn't pull away, but instead intertwines his fingers with hers. His skin still bears that comforting warmth, without any trace of looming sickness.

"Let's stay here forever," she whispers. It's impossible. Illogical, but she doesn't care.

"Okay," he replies, voice just as soft. It's a lie.

But it's something. It serves their dreams.

For now, it's enough.

* * *

Later though, it isn't.

When night comes, he goes below. Removed from her.

It had been different with everyone. Some had taken days–even weeks–to Change. Some took only hours. An unpredictable storm. Either way, she's alone. Without him.

The look he'd given her before disappearing into the basement had been devastating. A combination of every suffering emotion there was. The only thing that had kept her from breaking down was the soft _goodnight_ he had given her, his lips lingering like a moth's wing at her temple.

There had been no _goodbye_ in his voice, in his actions.

Still, she can't hug him. Not yet.

_Not yet._

Nonetheless, she needs something to hold on to. An intrinsic piece of him. Hope is fast slipping away, virtually nonexistent. So, she grasps the only thing she can find. In their shared-person room, her slender fingers curl around the trinket, small in her hand. In the darkness, the sudden solitude breaks her. The tears are on her face long before she's even aware she's weeping.

Her strength threatens to abandon her now, too–the faintness only doubled because of the injury she wears on her leg. She collapses back against the wall, tipping her head upwards and choking back a cry. Her knees give finally and she slides slowly to the floor, back pressed against the hard plane of sheetrock. She draws her knees up to her chest as great wracking sobs begin to break through her pale lips, causing her shoulders to quake.

She wraps her arms tightly around herself, trying to imagine someone else. But there's no warmth, no softly whispered words. Burying her face into her contracted form, she clutches helplessly at Bob the Caveman, begging the night to swallow her whole.

Booth is infected.

* * *

_On the floating, shipless oceans I did all my best to smile  
'Til your singing eyes and fingers  
Drew me loving into your eyes  
Here I am, here I am, waiting to hold you_

_Now my foolish boat is leaning  
Broken lovelorn on the rocks  
Oh my heart, oh my heart, shies from the sorrow_

-This Mortal Coil-


	23. Cure this Tragedy of Mine

**********Author's Note: Apologies in advance. I suck. And lol, sorry for making everyone cry! I know it's supposed to be a good thing, but I always feel guilty, haha.**

**Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile!**

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO  
**CURE THIS TRAGEDY OF MINE

*

_It's buried deep within the past, I hope it doesn't last  
It's something I already chase  
I try to give it all away, but it's never going to fade  
I know you feel it's all the same  
But I promise that'll change  
You know I'm trying to believe  
That you're never going to leave  
It's something I don't want to face  
When my heartstrings come undone  
I will wait for you, pray for you  
Before I make my final run  
I will stay with you, decay with you_

_I know I'm not the perfect one, this pain has just begun  
If you fade out without me, you'll know all about me_

-Heartstrings-

* * *

_**August 22**__**nd**__**, 2010**_

For the next hours, days, time infinitum, she feels as if floating through the world untethered. There is nothing holding her in place and sometimes it seems like she's watching herself move from the outside of her body with no real feeling of being there. A specter, a pitiful echo of the woman she'd used to be.

She hasn't slept. She can't remember if she'd even tried. The darkness had been too encompassing, too terrifying. Unable to at least switch on a small light for concern of alerting the roaming Infected of their residence, she'd been forced to lay still and quiet. Their wails and hungry screams had reached deafening volume, haunting her through the night, as if they had been right beside her. Always so loud, so primal.

What had been worse was that she'd been alone to face the monsters that prowled the night, even if a secure structure separated her from them. She curses all the times she'd said she could take care of herself, didn't need anyone else. The one who'd always guarded her fears at night is now gone away, far below, for her own safety. The very idea that he could possibly cause her any harm is appalling, to say the very least. She knows his Christian sensibilities would scold her, but any thought that he could possibly hurt her was utterly blasphemous. It's impossible to imagine. But then, he never would. _Booth_ wouldn't.

The disease will change him–transform him into one of those monsters that craves only the darkness and her blood. An animal of pure, carnal instinct. The thought that he would be rendered to such a creature elicits an unbearable pain to swell in her chest. She pushes the living nightmare away with a force.

She needs to focus.

Brennan, hesitant, allows her eyes to brush over his hunched form. He's not far from her now.

This morning had been cruel though to them both.

* * *

Braving the stairs and her fears, she watches him sadly as he sleeps–concealed away behind a Plexiglas barrier in the corner of the room. Fully clothed in his black attire, seated with his back pressed against the wall, knees drawn to his chest. Lodged as closely to the wall as attainable, in the back corner of the cell. She winces at the word.

The ultraviolet light emitting from the overhead source had crept near to him during the night, and he'd positioned himself just as far away from the persecuting light as he physically could. Wilting against its eminent glow. She wishes he'd allowed her to disconnect the fixture. The light over the stairwell is more than enough. She hates to see him suffer needlessly. Hates to see him suffer at all.

When she approaches the containment shelter–this term is no less horrifying than the other–she switches off the overhead UV lighting, heart tugging painfully when he eases a little in his slumber.

Unlatching the vacuum sealed lock that keeps him within, slowly sliding open the sliding barricade, she kneels quietly beside him. Calculating eyes study his form with calm discontent. His visage is pale in the low light of the basement, lacking in the usually warm glow that only brightens when a smile splits his face. His breathing's a fraction above normal, especially for one lost to the realm of sleep. The eyes which she adores so much and seeks comfort from on a daily basis are closed, shrouded. Hooded under a dark hollow, where shadows gather under their base.

Closing her eyes against the onslaught of dooming thoughts, she reaches a hand out to him, touching his shoulder gently. Barely a brush of skin on clothing. "Booth," she summons in a quiet voice. He doesn't stir, but his eyelids flutter, and the dark wings of his brow draw together in a passing frown. Softly, she shakes him. Speaks a little louder. "Booth–"

He flinches away from her without warning, with such velocity, that she gasps. Startled, she shies back, staring at him worriedly when his breathing comes in even shallower bursts. Slamming in and out of his lungs. When he looks back at her, slight confusion hides beneath the pooling brown of his eyes in the muted light. It takes too long for her liking for him to realize what happened and that he's safe in her constructed lab.

"Bones…" he trails off uncertainly, voice graveled and fragmented. He blinks and sits up a little. "I'm sorry."

She offers him a supportive smile that really can't be called one. Touches his arm in reassurance. "It's all right. I didn't mean to wake you so suddenly."

He frowns at her words, but doesn't say anything.

* * *

Now, he sits hunched over on the exam table, feet propped on the lower railing running across its metal stalk. His vacant stare stays centered on the floor as she peers through the microscope in front of her at a sample of his blood.

The evidence magnified before her brings about a sick feeling in her gut she tries to expel. Aims to stay objective. The monochromic viral cells clinging parasitically to their healthy red counterparts leave her miserable and restless. She needs to be the scientist now–for his sake, at least. All the signs had pointed to the inevitable conclusion of his… condition. But there's something about witnessing the concrete proof that taints his blood.

He'd been poisoned. Contaminated by this infectious disease. How can such a loving and good man deserve such a fate? Blinking against the sudden sting developing behind her eyes, she reminds herself once again to focus on the task at hand. Compartmentalize like she's never done before. She has remedies to test.

Booth finally turns his eyes to her as she works, concentrating desperately on the only thing she knows will save him. The science.

There's a troubled frown on the mouth that's really meant for smiling. He hates to see her like this. What he's going through he can deal with. He isn't afraid to die. But he's terrified of leaving her. Right now, it only feels like he's catching, or in the throes of, a harmless flu bug. And while, admittedly, he's a wuss when it comes to colds, what scares him most of all is the lack of control–that split second when she'd woken him and he'd thought he couldn't recognize her. That thought alone is enough to break him.

_Lose control… you lose control, you'll be just like him, just like him, just like_ him_. Just like Dad. Living off instinct and drink. Hurting the ones you love without giving a damn one way or the other…_

He realizes he'd been deep in thought when he suddenly feels her skin on his cheek, grazing him with the back of her hand. "You're a little feverish," she observes in a quiet voice, meeting his eyes with only inches separating them.

She isn't wrong.

He'd felt the heat sometime last night, unable to squelch the internal furnace growing inside him as he'd curled himself up against the wall corner. Away from the light that had once made him flinch, but now burns upon contact. "You should drink a lot of fluids. To maintain your body's natural moisture." Her voice is soft and questioning. "Can I get you anything?"

He clears his throat, nodding vaguely as she looks away, but doesn't step back. "Water, I guess," he replies, frustrated at the callousness of his voice. He tries to be jovial, but he's mad. Not at her of course, God no, but at the situation. At the thing that did this to him... the thing whose actions put that frown on her face.

"Alright. I'll take your half of the rounds today as well. I won't be gone long," she reassures him at the muted look of unhappiness in his eyes.

He can see her visibly retract thereafter, closing him out as she makes to move away. An urge of timid desperation rises and his hand reflexively reaches for hers, closing around it. "Don't," he begins, begging her with his eyes. "Don't go yet." Feeling a lump form in his throat, he tries to steady his voice. Barely enough to be called a word. "Please?"

She feels a gentle wash of emotion swell in her chest at his quiet plea. "Oh." Shaking her head, she steps away and retrieves a syringe from a metal tray, holding it up for his eyes to peruse. "I wasn't–I was… just getting this. It's okay, Booth, I'm not leaving."

Though the relief is immense at her staying, he observes the needle uncomfortably. "What is it?"

"It's an imidazoline compound similar to Tizanidine," Brennan explains. "It prevents against symptoms not unlike hyperreflexia by depressing excitatory feedback from muscles that would normally increase muscle tone and high epinephrine levels, thereby minimizing spasticity." At his meager expression, she catches herself. Ducks her head in embarrassment. "It's… a muscle relaxant," she clarifies.

Upon his halfhearted laugh she thinks sounds more like a sigh, he offers his arm to her, his jacket recently discarded. He says nothing as she introduces the antispasmodic drug into his infected bloodstream, counteracting against the slowly emergent adrenaline that now and then befalls him.

As the quiet engulfs them, she runs through every technical calculation and remedy theorem she's gone over, all the while wondering what he's thinking. This part isn't new, but the circumstances surely are. She herself is frustrated, tired, and determined. Too many emotions struggle for dominance within her psyche, leaving her with a slowly increasing headache. She both wants to scream and burst into tears in unison, torn between fury and calamity.

Her emotions fascinate her.

She concedes that she's only upset with herself, and her inadequate abilities. Her repertoire doesn't carry into this level of scientific research. When they'd come to her with the pretested _Krippin_ cure, her only task had been to oversee the drug and modify the sensitive solution when required. And she'd done just that.

She'd been the chief observer, and the head researcher on the case, but there is still so much about the now-virus that she doesn't know. The basic, original structure being one aspect. KV _is_ elegant–unlike any typical contagion. It thrives on elevated temperatures and high levels of combined amino acids, phenylalanine and tyrosine.

These, concurrently, produce catecholamine, a sympathomimetic monoamine. Simply put, highly severe adrenaline. She has to counteract these effects. She'd virtually cured Compound Six, but when subjected to human blood, the results forever remain less than satisfying. Either it kills the host, or is ineffective. She has to contrive a way to drastically weaken the points of infection she's discovered.

Booth's roughened voice disturbs her thoughts. "This morning," he says. When she looks up, he won't meet her eyes. "I didn't recognize you this morning."

Drawn features alleviating at the ashamed tone he's assumed, she sets the syringe aside softly and touches his hand. "For how long?"

He shakes his head, one broad shoulder lifting in a shrug. "Not long. Barely a second."

"That's not all that uncommon. Especially if you were under a stressful sleep. Plus, waking up in an unfamiliar space, it's only natural that–"

"_Bones_," he says, voice firmer. His somnolent eyes gravely meet hers, pouring desolated emotion. Begging her to understand his grief. "I didn't know who you _were_."

She gazes at him in silence, seconds unspooling, not saying a word. Through the unhealthy scarlet rim under his eyes and the pale complexion of his normally tanned skin, she sees what plagues him. Both physically and mentally. It maddens her that such a strong and able man can be left so helpless and weak at the hands of this invisible villain. And then be made into a monster thereafter.

It's unacceptable. Evil.

She nods sadly at his words, wishing for anything she can do to help him. She knows what terrifies him isn't the physical toll KV will wreak upon his system. He's terrified he'll hurt her. And be unable to stop himself. Her searching eyes travel over his face, solemnly taking in the consequences of his actions days previous. Her fine brow creases unhappily, her voice faint and low. "God, if you hadn't…"

"Don't."

A stubborn resolve rises within her, unbidden. She can't help yet feeling livid at his measures. "You knew it couldn't have infected me."

"But it would have _killed_ you." Barefaced disbelief at her argument shows in his tired eyes. She stares back at him persistently, the sweetest, most saddest pout on her lips. Even though she fights against them, he can see the slight glimmer of moisture filmed over the bright shade of her eyes. He gazes purposefully into them, his voice low and questioning. "If it were reversed… would you have saved me?"

The instinctive answer is already on her lips, but she catches it before it can manifest. She knows that he will see through any lie she conceives and so, without blinking, she nods once. Forfeits the argument. "Yes."

His expression softens. "Then how can you be mad at me? We all make sacrifices for," there's a brief hesitation in his voice, almost indiscernible, "for the people we care about. Those important to us. You're important to me." She seems to accept this, but doesn't look away from him. Unable to meet her eyes any longer, he bows his head, still drawing comfort from the contact of her touch. "It's going to get worse… isn't it?"

The question stings. But she is brave, impenetrable. She can hear the defeat beginning to creep into his voice and feels her protective instincts taking over. "Not if I can help it.

Booth raises his eyes to hers again, feeling his lips upturn slightly at her quiet determination. Her own face is considerably more ashen in the low light of the basement, and soft shadows have gathered under those captivating eyes. Though not taking away from their beauty. Reaching up, he traces a finger gently a long her jaw line.

"You look tired." At his touch, her eyelids briefly flutter closed, lashes brushing at colorless cheeks. His thumb gently massages the skin at her temple, easing the pounding headache into a dull throb. She breathes deeply, fatigue spilling from her. "Wearing yourself out won't do any good, Bones." Those brilliant eyes reemerge again to look at him, and she releases a soft sigh. Leans into him, consciously unaware of her actions. Something flutters in her middle when his hand feathers over her hair, and she impulsively takes a step nearer.

She places a gentle hand on his chest, frowning at the quivering heartbeat beneath her palm. It's quickening already, and she's saddened. He watches her apprehensively as the seconds lengthen and she doesn't move away. Her hand is warm through the fabric of his shirt, radiating her affection. Resting her opposite hand over his knee as he sits quietly on the exam table, she finds it increasingly harder to control her emotions. "I wish time was on our side."

His dark stare seeks hers longingly as she'd closed the distance, but after another moment, he drops his hand away. "It never is."

The moment is not gone, but simply delayed.

A disappointed frown tugs at her lips, and it wounds him–those lips meant only for smiling. He hasn't see his favorite smile since he can remember, and he prays he'll see it if only one more time before he forgets what it looks like. And everything with it. He offers up one of his own, a sad representation of his usually boyish enthusiasm. "You should go do the rounds, huh?"

Despite her severe forestalling to leave him, Brennan nods reluctantly. "I won't be gone long," she promises. Backing away briefly, she returns to his side a moment later with a handful of objects in her hand, retrieved from a back counter. "I thought you might like something to pass the time. Occupy yourself?"

He can tell by her tone that she's nervous, hesitant if she's done the right thing. Pleased him. As he looks down at what she's placed in his hands–a book and a handheld video game–he finds himself grinning. It isn't full-wattage, but it's something. "Crash Bandicoot?" he questions hopefully, calmly eager brown eyes darting to hers.

Surprised by his chosen inquiry, she feels a brief flicker of mirth pass over her lips. "For you, yes."

Anything to see that smile.

* * *

_**July 30**__**th**__**, 2009**_

_He's hardhearted towards the steady knock at his door. Ignoring the late visitors never works, so he decides he may as well humor them. They can talk if they wish. But he won't promise to listen._

_Hair mussed and jaw roughened, he takes the knob in his hand and yanks open the door, scowling at the two suit-wearing agents waiting on the other side. _"_Evening, Booth," the one on the right, Agent Patterson, greets. __The older man is neither pleased nor upset. The man on the left, Agent Tucker–younger and more suave–only offers a brief upturn of his eyebrows and a sideways grin. _"_Can we come in?" Patterson prods casually. _

_Booth's heavy dark eyes regard them offhandedly, but wordlessly steps aside to allow the two fellow agents access into the home. After they're inside, he nudges the door shut with the heel of his foot before moving past them. _

"_You look like hell, Seeley," Patterson observes, stuffing his hands into his pockets and proceeding to look around the room from his position. __He lifts a thick eyebrow as Booth goes around to stand before the small bar in the kitchen, tending to his previously abandoned bottle of scotch. His dark overshirt is rumpled and hangs loosely off his broad shoulders on top of the black t-shirt. __His jeans are notably wrinkled, and Patterson also takes notice of the state of the couch in the living room. He surmises unhappily that his fellow agent spends his nights there instead of a warm bed. "I can only imagine how you must–"_

"_I don't know where she is." _

_Booth's gruff voice cuts him off, and he withholds a sigh. _

_Turning around while momentarily neglecting the warm alcohol he'd been about to indulge in before being so rudely interrupted, Booth sends a disgruntled look at his colleagues. __While Patterson was getting comfortable by taking a lean against one of the counters, Tucker has nonchalantly stuck a cigarette between his lips and retrieves the trademark Tasmanian Devil lighter from his suit pocket. _

_He casts a glance at Booth, the question in his eyes before it reaches his occupied lips. _"_You mind?" The cigarette bounces lightly as he speaks. _

_Booth rolls his eyes, turning away from the doubtful duo and says nothing. Taking this as a sign of indifference, Tucker promptly lights up. _

"_Booth, we know you're her likely contact," Patterson calmly informs, not looking for a fight. _

"_I haven't seen her." _

_Patterson can tell by the tone in his younger colleague's voice that he's suffering at his partner's absence. The relationship and emotional bond between the two unlikely cohorts had been legendary in the Hoover Building. So had the devotion. There had always been rumors of an even deeper connection, hidden intimacy, but nothing had been confirmed one way or the other._

_Despite questionable loyalties this younger man held towards the now-fugitive Temperance Brennan, Patterson believes him. And feels sympathy. _

"_She call?" Tucker hints past the possible loophole in Booth's words, taking another drag. __Patterson withholds the retort on his lips for his partner's lack of delicacy. Booth fixes him with a dark look, for which Tucker puts his hands up in surrender. _

_Booth turns back to the older agent. "Are we done?" _

_Patterson heaves a heavy sigh, running a hand through his graying hair. "Sure, Booth." _

_As the two agents make for the door, Booth follows after them, intent on seeing them out so he can be left alone again. Feeling a little pissed that he'll also have to sweep his place once again for any bugs, he casts a wanting look back at the tempting scotch bottle._

_Tucker steps out first, leaving a lissome trail of smoke behind. Patterson turns around after exiting. _"_If she does contact you… you'll let us know?" _

"_No. I won't."_

_Booth slams the door. _

* * *

She hates locking him away.

As if he's some sort of beast. He isn't. He's Booth. Will always be Booth.

She'd offered to bring him something more comfortable to sit on, but he'd languidly shaken his head. Intent on bringing him something anyway, she makes for the cell's door with an armload of pillows.

And she stills in her tracks.

The sight of him looking so lost and so thoughtful all at once as he stares down at the Beretta sidearm in his hands paralyzes her. The pillows thump at her feet and she slides open the clear barrier. "Give that to me."

Her voice quavers. Cracks under the stipulation. He looks up in surprise at her demand, eyes questioning. Her expression brooks no argument. "I'm just cleaning it, Bones," he tells her quietly, nodding at the small tools near his thigh.

She stares him down, resolute. A fist clenches around her heart when, after a moment of challenging silence, he slides it over the smooth concrete toward her feet. She crouches to his level, looking him in the eyes. She knows what he's thinking, even if he doesn't yet. If she's harmed in the process of this search, so be it. It is her choice alone. He will not be a sacrifice again. She knows he won't, but the chance is too devastating to take.

Even if he certainly won't now, his mind is already starting to deteriorate. His good judgment will begin to suffer severely. The risk is unacceptable. Calmly, she picks up the handgun and in one smooth movement, takes her other hand and draws the slide back, disengaging it from the barrel.

With the two halves tight in her grasp, harmless, she tells him tersely, "It's clean."

The days following pass like broken glass.

**

* * *

**

_Remember me when I have gone away  
Gone far away into the silent land  
When you can no more hold me by the hand_

_Nor I half turn to go, yet turning to stay  
You remember me when no more day by day  
You tell me of our future that you planned  
Only remember, you understand  
It'll be late to counsel then, or pray_

_Yet if you should forget me for a while  
And afterwards remember, do not grieve  
For if the darkness and corruption leave_

_A vestige of thoughts I once had  
Better by far that you should forget and smile  
Than that you should remember and be sad_

-Christina Rosetti-


	24. My World without You

**Author's Note: Sorry for the wait. Which, I guess, wasn't that long, lol.**

**Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile!**

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE  
**MY WORLD WITHOUT YOU

*

_Don't turn away  
I pray you've heard the words I've spoken  
Dare to believe, over one last time  
Then I let the darkness cover me  
Deny everything, slowly walk away to breathe again  
On my own_

_Carry me away  
I need your strength to get me through this_

-Darkness-

**

* * *

__****August 24**_**th**__**, 2010**_

_She's back in the warehouse. _

_It's dark, calm. Shafts of light reveal the dusty air. Everything's quiet. _

_She's still, in the center of the room, where he'd found her before. Hands at her sides, she rotates her right until the palm faces up. Catching the sunlight on her fingers. Expressionless, though her eyes are sad. Never could hide the truth in that particular shade of blue. __Especially not here, in this haunted place. _

_She closes her eyes and there's a troubled crease at her brow. Sighs so softly, barely enough to disturb the dust. "You're not here." _

_He fades out of the shadows behind her, stepping slowly. Curiously. "Of course I am," he contends, and she can hear that gentle expression on his face. The one he always uses when trying to explain something important she doesn't understand. _

_Everything is _quiet_. _

_She can feel him hovering right beside her, his presence claiming her every awareness. His voice is a soothing balm to her quivering nerves and numbed movements. "Fine," she relents, as always. _

_He stills, brow creased in concern. "You're unhappy." _

_She still doesn't look at him. But the corner of her lips upturns a fraction, eyelids fluttering. "What makes you say that?" __His smile, she can feel it. If she looks at his face, she'll be undone and that can't happen. She needs to focus. But… so tired… _

_His voice, his smell, so relaxing…_

"_I know you, Bones." She can sense that smile grow. "Plus, you've got a thundercloud of gloom hanging over your head." _

_She shakes it the negative, provoked into their usual banter. Her own smile twitches, a little bigger. "Not likely." _

"_No?" _

"_Impossible." _

_Damn that grin. "Of course." _

_She sighs, shoulders slump. And it's back to counting dust molecules, watching the light play over her fingers. He doesn't say anything for so long she thinks that maybe he's gone. But he never leaves her disappointed for long, if at all._

"_Why this place?" he asks. _

_Her gaze drops and she starts to fiddle with the hem of her shirt. Discomfited. After a moment of contemplation, she drops her hands, knocking against her sides. Looks around. "This was where it all began, wasn't it?" __It's a gentle question, but rhetorical, nonetheless. __He's quiet again. Everything's so damn quiet. _"_Maybe if I hadn't run in here…" her voice falls softer still, a broken mumble in the silence. "Maybe things would be different…" _

_The chain reaction had started here. Gull steals the serum, flies into warehouse. Girl runs in after it. Boy chases girl. They find a nest, a plan unfolds. Capture one. The lead monster replicates the trap, springs it on the two. Boy gets hurt saving the girl. As ever and always, this is the way of things._

_He waits, patient. Thoughtful._

"_Are you apologizing?" It's an honest question, not patronizing or smug. _

_Tears prick at the corners of her eyes, and for a frightening moment, she fears she'll lose the battle. As always though, she forges on. Forces them at bay. _

_A distant clatter interposes their moment. It's not long before the remote cries of their adversaries echo far away. __This time her smile is sad. "They're coming." She still can't brave to look at him. Too afraid she'll see those hauntingly gray eyes staring back at her. Her head bows. "You'll be gone soon." _

_But he doesn't look away. Instead, she feels him take a step closer, draw nearer like an orbiting mirage–his world always did revolve around her. His voice is soft, almost as if he's afraid she'll break under the weight of it. "You're worried I won't be able to love you when it happens."_

_When he turns into one of those creatures that hunt her now, closing in. _

_She doesn't say anything. Her throat closes, refuses to acknowledge any intent to speak. It doesn't matter, though. She has nothing to say. Anything spoken would fall inadequate, somehow. __Already she can feel him fading away. But somehow–always–that's never stopped him._

"_You think too much, Bones," he smiles. Almost sadly, but not quite. _

_It's something._

* * *

Brennan tosses in her sleep, the darkness shadowing her form in a mentally suffocating shroud. The events of hours before frequent her mind, haunting and tormenting.

Dreams of guilt. Dreams of him. God, she doesn't want this to be happening.

It had been worse, yesterday.

* * *

_**August 23**__**rd**__**, 2010**_

_She isn't sure how much more she can take of seeing him in this state. His condition is noticeably degenerating, even compared to last night. The paleness of his lips blends almost perfectly into the wan shade of his face. __When she feels the erratic pulse point at his wrist, his skin is fiery to the touch. It's in his eyes, however, that she witnesses the foremost evidence. Around her favorite shade of brown is the infamous gray halo. Even more pronounced than her own mark of contamination. _

_Now, she finds herself settled yet again in front of that damn microscope, which refuses to spare her any answers. She's only been following this dreary routine for days, and already she's sick of it. It's getting her nowhere and no matter what she tries, remedy after remedy ends in failure. __Her mind continues to draw a helpless void. _

_It takes her concerned voice to uncover festering wounds. A simple "are you all right?" combined with a worried frown to knit her brow when he shifts anxiously atop the exam table, looking lost. __His prolonged silence has only concerned her more, so she says his name a little louder. _

_Appearing to pull out of his lapse for the time being, he clears his throat and glances down at his hands instead of looking at her. His voice is low and distant. She's never seen him so timid. It's wrong. She wants to believe this is a completely different man seated before her. "I can't stop shaking. I… it's hard to sit still." _

_He hasn't said much since the day before. When she'd questioned him on symptoms he'd possibly been feeling, he'd been quiet. _

"_The nights are harder," is all he'd divulged. __She can't conceive what it's like to go through. She only sees how he's affected from third person. What he's experiencing first hand, however, she can't imagine. He avoids each question she presents on the subject. _

_On the outside, the creeping transformation is painful. She's had to up his doses of muscle relaxants since the evening before, just to keep him stable. Several times, she'd had to support him as sporadic coughing fits seized him. He always pulls out of them quickly, but each time takes a piece of her. A piece of him. _

_It's torture. _

_She feels the rising burn behind her eyes long before she can no longer see the sample past the lens of the microscope through the moist fog. Guilt eats at her, rotting away her resolve, her drive. Not only for what's happened to him. It's the weight of the world again, but her Hercules is quickly fading. Unable to stay herself, she says it. Bursts from her lips before she can swallow it back down to be forgotten. _

"_You should have killed me." _

This_ was where it all began._

_The quiet confession hangs in the air like a heavy poison, corrupting the air. She wishes he'd killed her. _

_Though he'd been unfocused by silent reflection, his head snaps around at the devastating sentence her small voice had thought to speak. __He inhales like she'd slapped him, looking absolutely stricken. Mortified. Even in his fleeting state of delirium, he'd heard the utterance–spoken so softly as if she'd hoped he'd never hear. When his eyes rest on his companion, her face holds no evidence she'd spoken except the tiny glimmer of emotion that's causing her eyes to shine._

_A cold fist closes around his pounding heart and a mental fog attempts to deny him the sight of her. He'd had to be delusional. Nevertheless, imagined or not, his ears still ring at the hurtful resonance the remark leaves hanging in the air. He finds his voice. _

"_What?" __It isn't much, but there's more emotion in that one word than anything he ever recalls speaking. _

_When he'd talked to her earlier that day, each time his voice had been uncharacteristically weakened, rough. Heavy. Weighted down by burdensome and plaguing thoughts, by the corruption in his blood. Though quiet, she's surprised now at how clear his voice sounds. __She dares to meet his eyes, taken aback by the wounded intensity in which he regards her. Unspoken, he's waiting for her to confirm what she's just said. _

_Looking away, she bows her head. She's weary of this thing called bravery. Her lack of denial will surely be enough. The only sound to follow are the soft beeps emitting from the medical equipment and monitors. Chest aching, she intends to focus back on the new remedy. _

_But he won't have it. "So this is my fault?" _

_Again, his voice is stronger than she's ever heard it today. With renewed courage, she meets his eyes. He gapes at her incredulously, and the hurt in his eyes racks up further remorse. She's so sorry. So _sorry_ for everything. She doesn't know where to begin. Doesn't know how to atone for any of her faults. All of them are too great and offensive for forgiveness. _

"_Because I didn't put a bullet between your eyes?" His voice gains volume, but he doesn't shout. He's clearly waiting for her to answer, but she looks away from his eyes, gazing unhappily at the dull hue of the tabletop where she works. _

"_No," she whispers, finger tracing small lines on the smooth surface. All around her, she feels the empirical equipment, her notes, and all the research closing in. Crushing her. Failing her. Proving her own collapse. She is a volcano to the fostering magma of emotional trauma. She wants this to end. "It's mine," she says, halfhearted even in her solitary accusation. "All of this is my fault." _

_She doesn't cry. She's too tired. Too empty. She's been neglecting her own health, and in fleeting consideration, she's certain she's dehydrated. Doesn't care. She'd almost fainted twice today, grateful he hadn't noticed where in other circumstances, he would've immediately._

"_Christ, Bones." She winces a little as he's set off, barely hearing him through the clouded fog and the soft rushing in her ears. He isn't angry. He's frustrated, desperate. Pleading that she might escape her self-blame. She wishes she could do so, for him. But it isn't imagined fault or conceived imperfection on her part. What she faces is only truth. _

_As she'd told him before, one can't repudiate fact. _

_He doesn't stop. Even standing now, she can picture the anguished expression on his handsome face, not understanding. _

_He feels a tightness in his chest, sad to raise his voice to her, but praying she'll listen. He's furious–so _furious_. So aggravated at her and so completely in _love_. Opposite and raging emotions vie for dominance in his thoughts and h__e's too fractured to try and tame them into placidity. Why does she insist on punishing herself? Through his inner maze of tangled thoughts, he vows that if he ever finds those fool scientists who'd brought this damn cure before her and hung the heavens on her shoulders alone, he'd knock them clean into the next country. _

_Considering though that the likelihood of them under the contagion of their own program is fairly high, he supposes it's a rather empty threat. If they were present, however, he doesn't doubt his strength. Though shaken and faint, his taut muscles feel ready to snap. _

"_I don't want you to die!" she suddenly cries, interrupting his heated words. It's desperate and it's made of agony. __He stills, hearing the banked pain in her voice, mirrored in the watery surface of her eyes. She forces her gaze downward again, slamming her fist against the surface of her work desk. _"Nothing_ is working. I've tried everything, Booth. I _know_ it's out there, but I can't _think_!" Overwhelmed, she buries her face in her hands, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. Whispering things made of remorse. "I never wanted anyone to die…" _

_For a moment, she's alone, miserable and just so very tired. Staring at the inside of her eyelids though, she suddenly feels his hand on her shoulder. __Though a little unsure on his feet through the dark haze that now and then assaults him, when in her presence, when touching her, he feels a mitigating peace prevail against the internal storm that he rarely feels anymore. The damaging cobwebs lessen, and for a moment, feeling her, he can almost taste the sunlight again._

"_You were planning to save me all along," her quiet voice pulls him from his thoughts. "There's a reason you wore that vest. In your subconscious, maybe, but the thought was always there." _

_Despite the somber situation, he feels a sad smile fade across his pale lips. "You hate psychology." _

"_No," she counters weakly. "Logic is the villain. It lies with the truth." _

_He watches her in disbelief at her words, but knows it's what she must be feeling. He has a devastating request of his own. "Just… promise me something?" His voice is smaller than before. Weak again, that strength diminished._

"_If it's what I think it is, absolutely not." Just as he had done when she'd confessed her dark secret earlier, her lost voice is stronger now. _

"_Please," he presses. "Bones… don't let me turn into…" _

_She's infuriated with him. Angry that he would ask such a thing of her. "Why not just do it yourself?" she snaps, bitter with heartache. Hurt flashes across his eyes and he ducks his head at the intensity of her glare, her words. Unwilling to speak, embarrassed to look at her. Dawning realization shows on her face, which softens in regret. "Booth, I'm sorry." She shakes her head, clear eyes genuinely contrite. A pain twists in her stomach. She struggles for the words, but he speaks before she can. _

"_I can't become one of those things, Bones. I can't." Bravely, his eyes meet hers. "I can't live with the idea that I could hurt you. Without being able to stop myself," his voice cracks at the sickening thought. "Without caring."_

_She touches his hand. "I need you to trust me. I need you to trust that I can fix this. Even if it gets to the point when…" A pang of dread rises in her midsection. Summoning her voice, she goes on. Her voice quiets, speaking low. "I would be able to contain you." __He cringes at this, painfully sickened. Face contorting in uncertainty. _"_At least until I could find something. And there _is_ something." Fragile determination lights her eyes, and she gives him a single encouraging nod. "There has to be. Every major phenomenon has an opposite. Plus and negative, light and dark, disease and cure." _

_He trusts her. _

_He wishes he can believe her. "You're using logic, Bones." _

* * *

It had been worse, today. Oh God, _so_ much worse...

She'd barely survived through the following moments.

* * *

_It isn't long after her promise to him, as the sun sets, that he falls victim to the first episode. It isn't uncommon. It's part of the Change. When the victim first begins to lose a part of who they are. _

_Puzzle pieces erased from the soul. _

_He's sitting, his elected spot where he resides as she works. It starts small. A whispering elegy foretelling of the inescapable conclusion. A tingle in his nerves. A slow rush of lightning in a bottle. __He says her name, faintly focused on his person–feeling that something's wrong. __Terribly, terribly wrong. __As soon as she looks up from her microscope in response, eyeing him with a measure of concern, she knows what's happening. _

_She's at his side the instant he slides to the ground, the overpowering surge of pure adrenaline and carnal instinct forcing him to his knees. His entire frame shakes as he places his palms to the cool floor, fingers splayed, barely feeling her hands on him. __He never hears her cry his name. __Heart pounding against his ribs, reaching impossible speeds–like the tempo of a butterfly's wing with the force of a sledgehammer–he wires his eyes shut. Overwhelmed. He's a strong man, but this is incredible. _

_Any average human being's body couldn't possibly tolerate such a thing without respite, and would quickly experience cardiac arrest, eventually leading to death. But the infection transforms the internal. _

_Brennan kneels at his side, holding him, panic coursing through her veins. In this singular moment, his life at severe risk, her rational mind goes dreadfully blank. Forgetting all protocol procedures and losing herself completely. Blinded, to the danger posed to him. _

_He shouts, low in his throat, sounding decidedly less human and more guttural than it should. He clutches the lowest steel railing of the table for support which now gives a low metallic moan at the extreme strength his grip deals. _"_Stay with me," she breathes, struggling to calm him. Rubbing soothing circles across his back through the t-shirt he wears. His contracted muscles are like stone under her hands, seized by the effects of KV. "Stay with me, Seeley…" _

_A strangled cry rips from his chest, and she witnesses the steel bar crushed under his grip. Sometimes the patient would pull out of it. Sometimes the effects were too severe. _

"_Focus on the pain," she tells him, words trembling past her lips. "Maybe you can suppress it. Focus on something tangible. Booth! I need you to do this! I need you to hold on!" _

_Her name whispers past his lips. Another whimper. "I can't…" _

_She knows the direness now. He's never uttered those words, ever. If this episode intensifies any more, he'll become a danger to both himself and her. Snapping back into science mode at his words, she rises up on her knees, peering over the counter's edge. Frantic, she scans the surface until she finds the syringe she's looking for. _

_No neuromuscular-blocking drug will pull him from this state of hyperreflexia. __Quickly squeezing out a small drop, she lowers herself back down and inserts the needle into the flesh of his arm, injecting the heavy tranquilizer. Such an amount of sedating toxin would kill any normal person. She hopes it will at most ease him out of consciousness. _

_She wraps herself around him, grip tight. "Breathe with me, Booth. Feel me, here. I'm right here. Breathe. Slow. Slowly…"_

_

* * *

_

Suddenly, she's awake.

With a shallow intake of air and a flutter of her eyelashes, clear blue eyes appear in the darkness. After this, she remains silent. Her breath is barely a whisper in the stillness. She lies there, unmoving, deep in thought.

Staring emptily at the ceiling above her, she'd known the moment her eyes opened she'll be unable to welcome sleep again. Yielding to the inexorable disposition, she glances at the glowing numbers on the clock nearby. It's early morning. Depending on the weather, the sun is most likely preparing to peer over the horizon.

Eventually, her eyes fall on the empty bed across from hers. A sadness reflects in her eyes, but doesn't reach her face. Slowly, she sits up, running fingers through her auburn hair. She's still tired, but sleep doesn't come easily. Not anymore.

Rising from the bed, she pads over to the door, limping, haunted by memories of that night which are yet to be remembered.

* * *

_The air is quiet now. __The lonely bleep of the monitors is all that disturbs the aching silence. _

_She stares ahead, eyes glazed and unfocused on no particular point. Slowly, the sedative had begun to take effect, easing him gradually into unconsciousness where his body and mind could be at rest. __Only his breathing betrays his true condition. Though soft, his takes come shallow and irregular. _

_The beeping continues. _

_She sits now on the floor, back propped up against the cabinet with her partner enfolded in her arms. His long legs stretch out against the floor, beside hers. The crown of his head rests just below her chin. One slender arm wraps around his upper body, holding him to her. Her other comes up so that she can run her fingers slowly, soothingly, through his dark hair. __Asleep in her arms, he looks no more than a sick boy. Features slack and calm with rekindled youth. Even with the ailment of his appearance, he's still devastatingly handsome. _

_She doesn't know how long she's been sitting here with him, but it seems like forever. _

_The silence is too much. The beeping too tormenting. She swallows past the lump in her throat, empty stare never abandoning her. Softly at first, tentatively, her voice breaks the stillness. "I've been drinkin' now…" __Barely a whisper heard in the din of peace. _"_Just a little too much." _

_His voice fills her head. _

Anyway, Bob Marley, he had this idea. Kind of a virologist idea.

_She feels the moisture on her face, crying silently with no one to see. Delicate features hold no emotion. She is numb. _

He believed you could cure people–literally cure them–by injecting music and love into people's lives.

_Her voice grows a little stronger, more clear. "And there's only one thing for me to do," she sings tearfully, fingers till tracing calming patterns through his hair. "That's to keep on tryin'." Sniffing, she dips her chin so that her cheek rests gently against his head. _

_She's losing him. _

_Not only her rock, but her dearest friend, her partner, her connection to the living world. And something more… something she can never seem to put a name to. In a fleeting moment, she doesn't know how she will survive without him. If such a thing is even possible._

The people who were trying to make this world worse are not taking a day off. How can I?

"_To get home… to you." _

_Who is going to hold her until she stops crying? Tell her that everything is all right? _

_Who's going to save her when she gets herself into trouble–teasing her about independent female tendencies? Pick her up from the lab when she works to late? Make sure she eats enough? __Who's going to watch old movies with her? Hold her shins when she does sit ups? Sing and dance with her, do the dishes with? _

_Who's going to help her learn useless cultural references or play catch with her while waiting for answers? Who's going to annoy her and chase her around with well-dressed mannequins? Who's going to stay up all night with her until she falls asleep? Shelter her from lurking shadows?_

_Who's going to kiss her when she finds the cure?_

_She bites her lip to prevent the sob from escaping. Who's going to call her Bones? Who's going to call her anything? _

_Who will she have to talk to at all? _

_Closing her eyes, she chokes out the words, the melody almost lost. "Keep on tryin' now… I'm through with cryin' now. I've got to find a way…" Taking a breath, she ends in a whisper. "To get home to you." She grips him tighter, eyes wiring shut. Tears spilling into his hair. _

_She'd been wrong before. If he turns into one of those things… he won't die. _

_He'll leave her. _

_Somehow, that's worse. _

* * *

She hates being away from him.

Moving purposefully toward the basement, she expects to see him where she'd left him. Lying peacefully atop the exam table, intravenous needle in his arm supplying the high-dosed sedatives to keep him comfortable. Blissfully unaware. When she enters the formulated lab, however, only desertion greets her. She feels a horrible, horrible weight sink in her middle.

The exam table is vacant–the needle dangling uselessly from the thin tube connected from the hanging pouch.

He's gone.

* * *

_Cover my eyes, cover my ears  
Tell me these words are a lie  
It can't be true that I'm losing you  
__The sun cannot fall from the sky_

_Stop every clock, the stars are in shock  
__The river will flow to the sea  
__I won't let you fly, I won't say goodbye  
__I won't let you slip away from me  
__Can you hear heaven cry tears of an angel?_

-Tears of an Angel-


	25. When Stars go Out

**Author's Note: Okay, this is probably going to be my last update til Monday.**

**Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile!**

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR  
**WHEN STARS GO OUT

*

_I can't see your star  
Though I patiently waited bedside, for the death of today  
So far away  
It's growing colder without your love  
Why can't you feel me calling your name?_

_Can't break the silence  
It's breaking me_

-Your Star-

* * *

_She finds him in a most unexpected place. _

_At first, she stares extensively at the empty table, memory of his form still fresh in her mind. She waits for his absence to sink in, for the reality to finally take hold. __When at last it does, she feels a combination of concern and perplexity. What tugs quietly at the rational portion of her brain is the lack of motive. __The sun will be stealing up the horizon soon, surely he wouldn't have left such a time as this. Even if… under heavy influence of KV, his newly acquired instincts would alert him against leaving so close to daylight. _

_Unless he's been gone far longer than she's assumed. _

* * *

_When she wanders back up the steps, however, her attention snags on the ajar door leading into the back hall. She remembers closing it last night. This is followed by more and more anomalies scattered throughout the home, leading her. Guiding her, showing. _

_Breadcrumbs?_

_Though she's unfamiliar with the children's story, the concept she grasps all the same. An errant buzz settles in the pit of her stomach, making it ache with anxiety. __Brow knit, she follows without hindrance. _

_With blind faith. _

* * *

_Ascending onto the rooftop balcony through the attic entrance, she finds him. _

_The sun is near on the horizon, but not near enough to pose a threat. The perfect moment between dusk and dawn. __The Infected will be gone from sight–hidden away in their dark refuges with all previous harmful intent momentarily diminished as the need for rest and safety arises. __His back is to her. He sits calmly, meters away with his elbows propped on his knees. He gazes out over the city, a strange sort of innocence behind his eyes. _

_Slowly, she approaches him as a gentle night wind picks up, carrying a few strands of auburn across her vision. _"_Booth?" __He shifts, acknowledging her presence, but doesn't otherwise speak. __She shivers in the sudden chill, rubbing her arms. Daring to defy the silence. "It's freezing out here," she comments lamely, but regards him with soft concern._

_He appears to be unfocused on anything particular that she can see. _

"_I'm not cold," comes his quiet assurance, a fleeting muse spoken aloud. Another follows, even softer than the former. "It's going to storm today." __She observes his posture, calm and relaxed, even in the uncomfortable temperature. His elevated body heat surely spares him from the cold. Nevertheless, it disconcerts her._

_She takes a moment to study him further, inhaling deeply and holding it for a time. Her calculative eyes still hold the concern she's adopted moments ago. _"_You should get inside, Booth," she reminds gently. Painfully. "The sun will be up soon."_

_He ignores her cautioning. "Look, Bones," he says instead, nodding up at the sky with an almost child-like regard. An undecided smile temporarily lights up his vacant features. "Stars." __Glancing up in puzzlement, her breath catches in her throat as millions of tiny glowing specks reflect across her eyes in the lightening sky. One year, being deprived of such a vision. __She doesn't think she's ever seen them shine so brightly. But perhaps separation makes the heart indeed grow fonder. _"_I wonder if God ever gets lonely," his sudden voice breaks quietly through her thoughts. He's gazing up at the sky with such intensity that she wonders for just a moment if he might see someone looking back. "His greatest achievement left so empty." _

_She feels tears prick at her eyes and turns away from the heavens. She knows he's honestly curious and not trying to be malicious. __Her tone is without chastisement. "Have you been out here all night?" _

_It takes him a moment to reply. Because he hadn't heard her in his distant concentration or if he's simply deciding what to say, she can't be sure. "Not all night." _

"_But…"_

"_I don't think I bother them," he reflects softly, staring out calmly into the vacant world below. _

_No, certainly he wouldn't. The Infected ones' hostility has never quite extended to… akin individuals. _

"_Do you feel any worse?" she asks him not long after working up the courage. Something breaks inside her, terrified of his response. __After the sedative, she'd given him a small dosage of remedial solution. A formula that's results hadn't quite been positive, but wouldn't kill the host, either. A dim shade of hope flickering within her chest, asking to be acknowledged. __She'd quashed it into a quieter anticipation–too afraid to hope too high. She wishes for the best, but has come to expect the worst. _

_Instead of answering directly, she watches him bow his head, a glimmer of the hold Booth leaking through. He doesn't want her expectations to be crushed, either. _"_It's still there, Bones." His voice is softer even than before, and holds a catch the more he speaks. "I can feel it. Eating away." He curls tighter against himself, drawing his arms over his knees, watching the skyline. "I don't doubt you, Bones. Never. If there was something out there, I know you'd find it, but…" he trails off, bravely accepting of ominous fate. His head shakes. "You can't find what isn't there." _

_Despite that she's already known, she feels a familiar need to comfort him. It's habit. This was them. She needs him back, no matter how far gone he's fallen. "Everything will be okay." _

"_No, it won't." _

_She feels a twinge of doggedness spark within her. The need to prove him wrong, especially now. "You don't know that." _

_For the first time, he turns and meets her eyes. __Gray locking with blue. _

_Despite the eeriness behind his appearance shift, she sees only Booth looking back at her. There's a wounded glimmer veiling what had once been brown. "But you do." It's almost a whisper. A spoken declaration of existing fact, no matter how badly she wishes it to be a lie._

_She tries to argue with him, insist that he's different than the others. Being immune to the airborne could have a specific positive influence. It could contain a hidden defense against counteracting KV's damaging effects. __She only needs more time in order to locate this enigma. That saving grace which will signify his ultimate recovery. _

_He offers her a sad smile. Reminds her that such a thing isn't logical. _

_And the floodgates break. _

"_I don't care," she breathes in a small, desperate voice. Quite unlike her. She doesn't even realize she's crying until a pained expression washes over his very pale face. Sympathy shining in his eyes as he gets to his feet and steps toward her. "You aren't a brain person, you're a heart person. You're thoughtful and, and _good_…" __Her words become thick with emotion and she trails off into an incoherent blather. _

"_Please don't cry, Bones," he chokes out even as his own eyes brim with unshed tears for her. _

_She'd been so afraid when greeted with that empty exam table. So afraid that he had left her. Inhaling sharply, she tries to compose herself enough to continue. "Science did this to you, my science… my science…" _

_She goes on in barely audible whispers as he takes her into his arms and holds her. She can remember no place she's ever felt safer. But this time his embrace feels different, desperate. __Surrendering at last, she hugs him in return, knowing it's an admission of defeat. That she's giving up. __There's nothing left. She's worked through every morsel of evidence. _

_There is no cure. _

_And that's it. Something in her chest shatters and a strangled sob escapes her lips. Her hands grasp at his shirt, body sagging against his. He supports her, and maybe she's supporting him, too. __Sobbing. No more soft, silent tears, but loud hiccupping sobs like she hasn't let go since that first night. _

_This is her grief. It's raw, and it hurts. _

_He feels it in the back of his broken mind, fracturing even more with each passing hour until the moment he fears he will remember nothing of this life and bond with her. __It keeps playing over and over in his damaged thoughts. _

Bones is sad... Bones is sad.... Bones is sad…

_God, this hurts. He pulls her tighter, fearing that this is the last night he'll see of her ever again. _"_Please," she begs, trying to catch her breath. Gasping, pulling him closer against her. Unwilling to let him go. Squeezing her eyes shut, she seeks to be lost in him. Lost from the reality of his slowly nearing exodus. __Beneath her cheek, his heartbeat races–the strong beat which she's taken such comfort from in the past. The steady tempo is long forgotten and fails her now. She misses it dearly, more than anything. __Each passing moment, she loses another part of him. _"_Don't leave me!" _

_To her astonishment, she hears him struggle past a sob of his own, trying to disguise it in the confines of her auburn waves. The heat of his arms guards her against the pre-dawn chill. _"_I'm trying, Bones," he whispers weakly. "I don't mean to. I want to stay with you…"_

_As if it's the most important thing he's ever told anyone. She is his everything. The thought of leaving her is unacceptable. It's painful. __She's hurting, and so he is in agony._

_The impending sun and the blinking stars are forgotten in a cocoon of misery and grieving souls. _

* * *

_In the late afternoon, she visits the rental store. Seeks to hold on to any small fragment of what remains of their routine. It's something they've done together, and it feels strange now to be without him. _

_She'd situated him in the basement, just as she had the night before. _

_She goes on now with a familiar, be it yet foreign, numbness. Expression void and stoic. Her hair hangs in limp waves around her ashen cheeks, framing her face in a dreary hollow that washes out the color of her eyes. __He'd been right. The storm is near. She can hear the calling thunder in the distance. The sky is gray, bleak. Reflecting her mood almost entirely. _

_Unwatched movie recently returned, she exits the store. Missing the guiding weight of his hand at the small of her back. _

_She stills though when the recognizable shade of orange does not greet her peripheral vision. Instead, a single figure stands, quite alone, near the entrance of the building. It's the Hollywood starlet, unchanged and unaffected. Her long brunette curls hang low below the shoulders and she stares off vacantly into the day. _

_Fred's girlfriend._

_Perhaps, Brennan thinks, the feminine mannequin is not so indifferent to the world now as first assumed. If she looks closely enough, and observes the intricate details differently, Brennan wonders if she notes a sadness in the plastic beauty's eyes. __The notion that this unliving woman will stand out here, alone now, for the rest of its existence, causes a pang to rise unbidden in her chest. With the rain coming, too. _

_Even if this plastic creature is unable to feel, it doesn't deserve to be alone. Uncared for and without a like companion. __She bows her head in shame, heartsick. Quietly, she says with regret, "I'm sorry about your friend." _

_If she'd expected a reply, she'd have been left with disappointment. To her growing depression… she feels a little twinge. Will this be her life now?__Booth had been so much better at this playacting game they'd often indulged in–to keep the loneliness at a lesser degree. Without him though, she has only these plastic persons to keep her company. After a great deal of time, she wonders how much she might come to depend on these effigies. _

_They won't be enough, she concludes immediately. __She needs him. __Even if everyone else is gone, as long as he was with her, she could've survived. She could go on. _

_Without him, she'll surely crumble. _

You have to listen_, he'd told her. _Just listen.

_All she hears is the silence. _

* * *

Now, she stands below the bridge. Stock still and cold stare burning into the crashed taxi cab. Battered and belly-up atop the hard pavement. Shifting her rifle sling more tightly across her shoulder, her concentration flickers to the cable snare hanging from the fender. The work of the alpha male Infected.

A spark flashes in her eyes, igniting the blue.

The Infected can't do this. _They can't_, she thinks, determined and piqued. _This was our snare. Our materials. _

Her partner's tactic.

The Infected have no higher brain function to accomplish such a thing. Brennan sets her jaw.

_They don't plan. They don't remember. They don't hate. _

Blinking her eyes, she fights against the sudden sting. "They can't love."

_They can't. _

Her voice holds a fracture to it as she speaks the words that have been lingering on her lips for the past several days. Since the moment she'd last been at this very bridge.

Falling back on her previous logic–if only to spare herself the deep pain in the words she's spoken into the still air–she arrives at her conclusion. Even if they couldn't possibly have done these things, these tasks... they have. Staring directly at the taxi cab, and at the snare, she feels something stir within her. The Infected had done this to him, deliberately.

Maliciously.

A simple animal could never be blamed for the crimes against it. It lived on instinct, innocent of any retribution. It knew not of possible wrongdoing. Its nature was to survive. But these… _things_… premeditated their actions. _Intended_ to infect Booth.

At first, her only concern had been to help these poor creatures who suffer because of her doing. Her mistakes. She'd sought to save them–cure them. Reunite them with their lost loved ones. And before… she had feared the night.

But now, she begins to discover a new feeling. Now, she's consumed by an overwhelming desire to seek the darkness out.

The storm arrives. Thunderclaps bellow overhead.

She begins to hate them.

Lightning splits the sky. Rain descends, heeding no surrender. Cold, hard shards that pool in the dips and hollows of the rough sidewalk. Drops land on her bare head like sodden judgment, drenching her in pain and pasting her hair and clothes to her body with icy fists.

Those two clouds are far from each other now. Torn apart by the storm.

Under the shadow of the bridge, bright turquoise eyes mold into a dark cobalt. She stills completely, wreathed by the furious storm developing at her back. All color and light is muted against the angry sky, save for the crackling blue sparks of her eyes. His leather jacket, at home on her shoulders, flutters against the wind. This is not yet her darkest hour... the worst is still coming. And it's coming _now_. It craves retribution.

The Creation will reap the wrath of the Creator.

When night comes, there are no stars to light the sky.

* * *

_It's growing colder without your love  
Can't break the silence, it's breaking me  
__And I'm alone now, me and all I stood for  
We're wandering now  
All in parts and pieces, swim lonely  
Find your own way out  
__Now I have nothing worth fighting for  
All my fears turn to rage_


	26. Wrath of an Angered Siren

******Author's Note: Apologies for the wait. Thank you everyone SO much for you kind and generous reviews!!**

**********Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**************Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile!**

* * *

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE  
**WRATH OF AN ANGERED SIREN

*

_Love is much like a wild rose  
Beautiful and calm  
But willing to draw blood in its defense_

-Mark Overby-

* * *

_Vacant._

The expansive bridge is bathed in the cerulean glow cast by the moon–whatever portion leaking through the vast and clouded sky. The storm is long past, the ground damp and sodden. A heavy mist remains in the air. Shadows swallow everything attainable, blanketing the DC area in a dark cloak. The air is still, but brings with it a frigid bite that isn't begot by the cold.

A single silhouette, lithe in shape and a deeper sable against the black sea of night, has posted itself at the steps of the familiar bank building. A lock or two of long hair billows in the newborn breeze like dark ribbons. Slowly, as if entranced by the pull of the stars.

Other than the brief flutter, the form is perfectly still. The world is quieter now.

_Inexpressive. _

A sudden shift disturbs the silent harmony of twilight. A dirtied foot ventures forward. Testing the waters. Attempting faultless stealth. Slowly, another pursues, moving discreetly for the form at the bank's threshold. More follow. A single troop of hunting predators, paying no mind to bare feet scuffing against the harsh pavement or uncovered flesh in the frigid night air. Sullied garments hang in rags.

Their pace quickens, the carnal knowledge that their quarry cannot possibly escape now swimming through their broken minds. Their speed is notable, adrenaline surging through powerful muscles. They're nearly upon their prey. Closer, _closer_. The lamb that has so foolishly exposed its back to the treacherous outside world. Hunger and awakened instinct rage within the inner confines of the figure's would-be captors.

_Empty. _

Behind them, headlights materialize with a sudden glare. The rev of an engine pierces the night.

The Infected skid to a halt, instantly on the alert. Whirling, they bare their dirtied teeth in confused surprise. The glare back-lights the brunette mannequin perched lifelessly on the bank's steps. Illuminated in the brilliant twin spotlights, the sickly forms targeted appear a ghostly army. Even with their keen eyesight in full use, they have to squint past the white glow to see the large Escape speeding straight for them. And, for the first time, they feel fear.

_Hollow._

Behind the wheel: savior and reaper.

Pale knuckles choke the wheel, ground tight. Brennan feels a darkness flush within her chest, expelling much needed light. Tears sparkle in her eyes–what little emotion she yet retains. Angry tears, furious and pained. The steel blue taking in the sight of the unsuspecting Infected hardens. Her brow slams downward in a combination of unadulterated rage and pure satisfaction.

_Come to Mommy, _she thinks vengefully, flooring the gas. Absolute despair. An aggrieved cry tears from her raw throat–a declaration of war. Screaming is all she can achieve. The first victim Infected strikes the frontend with a collision that rocks the entire vehicle.

_Broken._

Sweets had once said she possessed a reverence for life that belied her from ever being capable of such massacre. Such needless killing. Booth had stood on trial for her, swearing determinedly that she could never harm another human being in such a manner. His speech alone that day had been the closest to a declaration of love as she'd ever heard or seen. It had been three words away from a confession. He'd bared himself to the world, vulnerable in front of judge, jury, and God. His feelings for her had never been clearer.

But Sweets was wrong. Her partner… is wrong. That reverence is gone. And her actions now disprove his loving defense.

And so she screams. Anything to kill the silence his absence leaves in its wake. She sees red. Painful, despairing, bloody heartache. Others soon follow. Struck directly and head-on before tumbling up the windshield and over the roof. Their screeches and startled protests fill her ears and claim her senses. Brennan feels every impact, and is glad for it.

_Cold._

This is what despair truly feels like. Heart slowly falling to pieces. Memories invade her thoughts, disrupting her objective. _Laughter, singing. Foreigner. _Slamming on the brakes, she watches as her last roadblock slides off the vehicle's hood before shoving the gear into reverse and peeling backwards. _Christmas trees and mistletoes. _Glancing behind herself, she witnesses one charging at her vehicle, now properly provoked and growling wordless, unintelligible obscenities. _An earring winking in the light. _Brennan picks up speed.

_Ruthless._

She is the brain person. He, the heart. Together, they had functioned as one. Think and react. Rationalize and feel. Partners in absolute.

Her heart is gone. These Infected creatures have torn it straight from her chest, right out of her life without mercy. Without hindrance. She can no longer feel. _Anything_. She feels no regret as she smashes an Infected's body between a lamppost and her back windshield. Feels no remorse.

_Brutal._

She hates them. Their suffering will bring her little peace, but that tiny fraction will be enough. She's unrepentant, consumed by a fury she doesn't even recognize. Rules are for people with something to lose, and she's already lost everything now. Her body shakes, swamped in grief, breath emerging in ragged gasps, angry tears choking her.

To the world, you may be just one person. But to one person, you may be the world. Booth was all she had left. Her only friend, her only anything. Peeling forward, the limp Infected sinking to the ground when no longer sandwiched between two solid pieces of metal and steel, she shouts again. Screaming against the sobs gathering her throat. Demanding their torment.

More tears, fresh tears, spring into her eyes. She's thinking of him again. Even through the hateful, barren void that has seized every fiber of her once merciful being, traces of him remain. The memories will, in the end, destroy her. The sorrow is fierce, but all things of him must be purged.

_Vengeful. _

She flinches when the driver-side window shatters upon another collision. Soon more stains and blood smears distort her windshield–surprisingly still intact. It won't be for much longer. After everything, she can take no more. He'd been her solid shield. Her confidante and sole protector. She had loved him–still loves him. Without him, she can't face all that's happened. All that _will_ happen.

_Unforgiving._

Without hesitation. Without remorse. Without guilt.

A father's daughter.

Cranking the wheel into a hard right turn, the Escape spirals furiously, taking out numerous bodies with the rear that juts out past the two back tires. Rubber squeals loudly, unashamed, into the night. In the spin, she feels a stronger impact than any human body could possibly instigate. The sudden lurch of the vehicle puts her on immediate alert and she feels the posterior half lurch downwards.

Her tactic has taken out the weakened bridge rail. The back tires have slipped off the side altogether, spinning wildly. Shattered bricks tumble and rain down onto the level far below. The Escape teeters dangerously over the edge. She forces the vehicle into fourwheel-drive. Before she can even find the time to panic, a body comes flying through the air to land violently atop the hood. The Infected screams at her through the glass, crouched and ready to attack. It slams its forehead against the glass barrier when more follow suit, piling up on her hood like monkeys gone mad.

In her favor, it does well to right her suffering vehicle where it then proceeds to slam its frontend back onto solid ground, smoke rolling around the whirling tires. Undeterred, Brennan surges forward again, the single Infected still bashing its forehead into the now spider-webbing glass. The second time she strikes the lamppost, she finds herself shying back from the exploding airbag.

Up the steel post, a tainted body clambers, hurrying for the summit. Reaching the lighting mechanism located at the upmost pinnacle, it begins to violently sway. Fellow pack members shimmy up at its heels, working together to bring down the heavy contraption. With a creaking moan, the towering post plummets, rocketing down and smashing against the Escape's roof, denting the metal. Each window projects glass shrapnel.

Acting on instinct, she fights to ignore the rapidly approaching figure in her peripheral vision and struggles to switch gears. Her own adrenaline, despite her desire for the situation, causes her hands to shake and her breathing to come in quick, shallow takes. Backing up as swiftly as the abused vehicle will allow, metal and fixture alike scrapes off paint along the roof and hood. At last, she pulls free of the daunting debris.

Too late or too soon, all that matters is the conclusion.

A body slams into the driver side panel of the SUV, rendering it into a two-wheeled totter. The vehicle spins erratically from another hit, and Brennan shields her eyes from the spray of glass.

A distance away, the alpha male Infected observes. Its eyes narrow petulantly under the dulling light of the moon. It huffs a sharp growl–an order. Others rush past it, the SUV as their destination and target. Brennan can only watch with glassy eyes as they narrow in.

Moments before impact, the male draws itself up and spreads its maw to release a war cry of its own, loud and deafening the night with blood-stained teeth glinting. Thunderous slams carry for blocks as multiple Infected throw themselves into the side of the vehicle, until it's upturned completely. Barreling over, the Escape lands viciously atop its hood, glass and other parts dispersing onto the barren street.

Only the wind breaks the newborn silence.

* * *

Marred and disoriented from the crash, Brennan blinks dazedly until the blurry interior of her vehicle slowly comes into focus. She feels the blood from the fresh wound on her forehead soaking into her hair, trailing down the side of her face. If her fierce display of sadism hasn't attracted their attention, the tempting red aroma certainly will.

As she tries to move, a harsh ache rises in her limbs, instantly dousing her efforts. Nothing is broken or too badly damaged, she knows. Feeling a light spray of mist, however, piques her bemused interest. Looking around, she realizes she's now clear across the bridge, all but safely dumped onto solid land again. Directly opposite the faraway bank building. Off to her left, she discovers the source of the freezing rain comes from a disturbed fire hydrant. Too far from her to cause any concern, though the temperature is no less arctic.

What does concern her are the hollow thumps she begins to hear coming from the underside of the vehicle above her. Slowly, she turns her head and watches as a deathly wan hand reaches down, strong and bony fingers curling around the windowless doorframe on her passenger door. Her heart hammers.

Its face at last comes into view... the visage of the alpha male. Its eerie calmness unnerves her. She feels her pulse begin to pound faster against her ribs. She holds her breath, attempting to squelch the rapid tempo. Her wide eyes gaze directly into its own, emboldened by a defiant spark. Prepared to face the inevitable. She tips her chin fearlessly as it draws itself into the vehicle, piercing stare cutting her through.

She knows her sidearm is impossibly concealed away in the glove compartment which now seems unreachable. She'd have to stretch past the Infected male to retrieve it. That just isn't happening.

Reaching forward, the creature brings its jaws inescapably nearer, parting pale, chapped lips to emit a slowly growing snarl. Brennan closes her eyes, hoping it will be quick. Everything seems to slow, her heartbeat becomes a steady boom in her ears. Breath catches, stalled completely. Chest seizes.

Suddenly, though, everything changes. Everything _happens_ at once. It's like a time warp, watching the expression slowly change on its grotesque face into something unreadable. A new feeling claims her every awareness, and without knowing why, her heart leaps. She knows this, it's familiar. But everything's uncertain still. All at once then, time rushes back. With a startled grunt, the male collapses against the base of its roost, arms no longer able to balance itself upright. A second later, it's being dragged, screeching, from the vehicle. Blunt fingernails carve into metal and leather alike.

Once out, a great force hurls the powerful Infected through the air where it collides against a fallen billboard parallel to the street. The impact resonates like a thunderstorm, and both bent metal and provoked human mass announce their protest and grievance alike. What remains of the raving Infected army falls uncharacteristically silent–having just witnessed their mighty pack leader tossed clear across the street like an unwanted toy. They twitch uncertainly in place, waiting anxiously for a retaliation or subsequent attack.

Brennan feels a gasp rise in her throat at the sight. Not of the violent display or the slack-jawed creatures, but rather of the interloper. She knows his form anywhere. Though the sheer force of his strengthening power startles her into stunned immobility. She whispers his name, the sound of it like a heavenly choir on her lips.

Booth stands his ground as the rival alpha male fights to disentangle itself from metal and twisted support beams. It pants furiously, screaming its ultimate resentment as it whips aside scraps of billboard to get through. A sense of foreboding closure at the rising standoff fills it to the core, for reasons its broken mind care nothing to question.

A carnal growl whispers in the back of Booth's throat, barely heard in the silence the stunned darkness provides. Muscles coiled and ready to snap. His gray eyes hold a dangerous glow in that same black realm, his face a thundercloud of emotion. It's impossible to mistake the protective fury leaching from his form.

He hasn't moved away from his place between the Infected and the upturned vehicle, blocking their path. Not one of them dares to challenge the stalwart barrage his body provides. One by one, they shift back, casting hesitant glances at their superior pack leader. The hulking male has yet to look away from its oppressor, jaw set and broad shoulders squared. It stands with a slight crouch, prepared at any given moment for attack.

Brennan slowly and carefully begins to hoist herself out of the vehicle with trembling hands, knowing that being boxed in only makes her a more appetizing target. A small chorus of rumbles erupts from the group from afar, and they look among themselves on how to proceed. A silencing bark from the chief male quashes them immediately, and then it turns back to Booth. Eyes expressing its hate.

With a final howl, it tears away and makes for its pack, shoving members aside in its shameful rage. Each one huffs in response and several, who are pressed into the spray of frigid water, yelp in horror and struggle from the line of fire. One by one, they disperse until none remain.

The phenomenon catches her eye, but her focus almost immediately strays back to him.

They're alone now. A fact that's she's shockingly aware of.

His back is to her, covered by only a t-shirt. His shoulders are hunched just barely, and his chest rises and falls with rapid succession. Despite this though, he seems strangely calm.

She doesn't know what to think. He shouldn't be here, defending her against a small troop of Them. He should have been one of the animal's trying to shove her off that bridge. It is not her partner now, so how? Perhaps it is the Infected body that's corrupted now? A Booth-strain it won't take much longer to be rid of...

"Booth?" she speaks tentatively.

His fingers curl into gentle fists, trying to still the unending movement they almost need to maintain. He turns finally to regard her uncertainly, gray eyes flitting to hers. She can see his ribcage expand and contract with worrying alacrity, quick and shallow, but his breathing is quiet. He watches her.

He appears to concentrate, unsure if he should take a step closer. "You never came back," he says finally. His voice is different somehow, deeper. There's a hitch to it, as if speech is difficult for him. His stare falls away from her, as though self-conscious of his condition. "I was…" His entire form tenses, as if remaining immobile brings him great difficulty and great unease. "I was worried."

Her breath catches in the back of her throat and she mirrors his newly assumed silence. They remain away from each other, almost at odds. An uncertain standoff. For a while, this is all there is.

He breaks first, submissive to the need of movement. He progresses her way, eyes glancing around in alertness before resting on her again.

"Bones," he says. This is what he remembers. Everything else is fading, but he knows this. Knows her. He'd seen that monster ready to harm her, and something in him had snapped. The sensation had been electric, buzzing in the pit of his stomach and sending an even hotter tingle across his burning skin.

This had been instinct. Impulse was a part of the Change, so it couldn't be lost. Not yet, not this instinct.

Bones in danger. That's what he'd seen. And so had reacted.

He sees her now, glad of his actions moments ago. But there's still a lingering tingle in his chest. "You should… you have to come home," he tells her. "Please." He doesn't know why this is important, only that it's important. He needs her to be safe. The feeling of home doesn't bring that unsettling feeling in his midsection.

She bites her lip, rebellious against the tears welling in her eyes. She's about to yield to his earnest request when something extraordinary happens.

The wind shifts. Carries the freezing mist across them, making goosebumps rise on her flesh. But it isn't in her which her interest is drawn.

He shivers. Just barely. And everything clicks.

Silence falls in absolute, stillness pervading the sounds of the night. Flashes dart across her memory, recalling. She sees them clearly, rapt with attention, as images of fleeing Infected shriek against the cold onslaught of water.

She reaches out her hand, catching stray drops. She imagines in a month or two they might even freeze against her skin. Stars blink and the universe stutters on its axis. _Yes..._ every morsel, every aspect, of her being realizes.

It's as if a thousand tiny voices begin whispering in her ear.

_Listen… listen… listen…_

Even the crickets seem afraid to sing. The fire hydrant continues to spray a thick geyser of frothy water into the air, creating a mini lake. The unruly mist reflects in her clear eyes, and in his. His eyes show her. Her breath catches, recessing, in her throat. Epiphany seizes her.

…_Hopeful._

When they'd first returned to DC, the Infected fighting to get into the Jeffersonian? They hadn't been behaving violently toward she and Booth… they'd been trying to get _inside_. Away from the cold. The very beginnings of a smile takes shape on her parted lips.

_Listen._

Sometimes, if you want to find something, you have to stop looking.

* * *

_Faith isn't faith until it's all you're holding on to._

-Anonymous-


	27. To Restore is Something Worthy

**Author's Note: Onward and upwards, folks! The light is upon us!! **

**Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile!**

* * *

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX  
**TO RESTORE IS SOMETHING WORTHY

*

_Imagination is stronger than knowledge  
Myth is more potent than history  
Dreams are more powerful than facts  
Hope always triumphs over experience  
Laughter is the cure for grief  
And love is stronger than death_

-Robert Fulghum-

* * *

With some difficulty, she ushers him quickly into the basement. All muscle and solid weight, he's a challenge to manipulate.

He's in and out. Mind fast degenerating, he'll be lost soon. The morning might beget better response from him, but tonight is pivotal. Pulse hammers, throat is raw and parched, but it's not her priority. Her injured leg throbs, screams with neglect as she ignores cautious movement and lumbers downward with him. She holds him steady, leading him. "Come on, almost there."

Her mind tears ahead, shamelessly leaping from one conclusion to the next. If this is going to happen, it has to be executed fast. She'll settle for nothing less. _Now,_ now_, there's no time to lose!_ Her breathing is frantic with fed stimulation. Thousands of tiny voices demand notice in her ears.

_Listenlistenlisten_listen_… you have to listen…_

The cooling shelter isn't enough. The host itself needs the near-freezing temperature to strengthen the effectiveness of the compound. The Infection cannot survive the cold. It strives on heat.

A fever.

She guides him into the Plexiglas cell in the corner of the basement. Lowering him to the floor, he sits in compliance, looking up at her shaking form. Excitement heats her blood, but she fights it. Any guarantee is transparent. This may not work.

_Listen_, the voice commands, belligerent against her doubt. She shakes her head distractedly to clear it, kneeling at his level. Her hand seeks out his skin, pressing against his forehead. He's burning, the fire in him is worse than before. Gray eyes seek hers, uncertain and lungs overworked. She braves the eyes that are not his, looking further. Beyond. For a moment, she's calmed. "Do you remember why you went to the bridge?"

"No."

Her confidence flags. She feels something collapse inside her gut, like a dying star pulling all the hope from her body. He looks detached, but honest. He doesn't feel well. Doesn't know why. His stomach is empty, craving sustenance. She smells good. Always smells good, but something…

The red on her face is inconceivably alluring.

His eyelids flutter, mind grasping at stability. He's on the edge of madness adrift, gravity urging him further away. It's hard, but he tries to answer her questions. Tries to please her. _Tries_ to ignore that tempting call of her pulse at the base of her throat. "I just… I remember it was... important."

This is the truth. He remembers this. Won't soon, but does now.

And the star brightens, and she can breathe again. That spark of hope is nourished, and she's back on course. Pulling away, she moves to leave. His hand snaps out before she can blink, closing around her wrist. She labors over the gasp, his grip painful. She knows he doesn't mean it to be.

"Sorry," he says quietly. Slowly, he releases her hand, looking embarrassed.

She watches his face, grievously apologetic, but knowing she has to leave. "I'll be back," she promises.

* * *

He's obeyed her commands, though it's difficult to keep still. Almost impossible. He contracts his form, forcing stillness to assume his muscles. When she returns, she's out of breath, a cooler in her hands, making her arms sag under the weight. With a slam, she heaves it onto the floor. Movements fast but calculated, she removes the surface plate of the exam table, hurrying it into the containment shelter.

It meets the concrete with a bang, clattering upon impact. He watches her in scattered curiosity. Squirms uncomfortably when his pulse quickens under an influx of epinephrine. It's happening again.

This is bad, he remembers. This isn't supposed to be happening. _No... no, no. Not... not good._

She leaves the cell, rushing back to the cooler and dragging it loudly into the space. She cranks it open, begins to dump the cubes of ice into the steel bed of the surface plate. Her fingers have become pink and numb with the chill.

His chest rumbles with the groan, blunt fingernails digging into the concrete. "Bones…" he whispers, wiring his eyes shut. His breathing intensifies. In less than a second, he's shuddering under the pressure. Barely able to discern up from down.

Her motivation snaps to him, eyes widening. She falls to her knees beside him. "Hold on," she tells him, squeezing his hand, touching his face. "Just hold on."

Ice dispensed into the bed, she's at his side with two syringes a moment later. The muscle relaxant is first, shooting into his bloodstream with purpose. He convulses under the harsh counteractant, sinking lower against the wall. It's an extreme dose. "Hold on," she says again. Determined, commanding. He can't possibly realize how badly she needs him to come out of this, to fight against every malignant and carnal pull that assaults him. She can hardly recognize her own desperation.

She's so close. He can't fail now. Can't surrender.

"Center will hold," he murmurs, faint. He collapses back, head lolling against the wall. He's fading. "_Center_…"

She doesn't think he even realizes he's saying it. His memory is erratic now, not unlike a broken record. Instead of a constant river of time, flowing sure and precise, it's an ocean in a storm. Fragmented and strewn out of sequence. Her eyes see vivid images replayed of gifted tokens, diner chats… late hours of paperwork… takeout… _Stop! Remain focused!_

Compound Six is next.

Her blood pumps faster, racing. Reaching around, she cradles him against her, peeling his t-shirt from his shoulders, over his head. The first layer of his skin has become nearly translucent. She can discern the intricate patterns of blue riddled under hot flesh. His veins that burn with the devastating disease. Muscles are like coiled steel. Mounting latent power is suppressed barely by the relaxant.

The second needle pierces his flesh, discharging the fabricated cure into his bloodstream. It's not a cure without assistance. It's not the ingredients that can save him–it's how they are combined. She's a genius, but still learns things wherever her travels take her. With the final syringe, she essentially mixes their blood. It is perhaps essence of her own life that will save him.

"Here, here," she instructs, aiding him upright. She positions him until the ice-covered bed is below him, then directs him into a supine position atop the ice. He seems disoriented, but meets her eyes when they seek his attention. "I need you not to move from here. Please, Booth–this is important." Her words are rushed, her own adrenaline lacing her actions and trembling voice.

"Okay."

The heat of his flesh will melt the ice too quickly for results to surface. She hurries from the cell, snatching the cooler and running up the stairs, leg protesting violently under the abuse.

Returning with more, she pours it around him, cranks down the thermostat of the basement. The house, too. She hauls the small air-conditioning unit from the upper level, heaving it onto the floor inside the cell. She maxes it.

_This will work, _she thinks, repeats it over and over again in her head. _It has to, it has to_. _God, please._

She bolsters her heart with the notion. She _needs_ this to work.

* * *

He's asleep now. Fitful, breathing irregular and express, but asleep. The muscle relaxant acts also as a sedative–the heavy dosage to thank. Muscles slide under the skin of his back, shifting against his shoulder blades. His chest expands rapidly, eyes dancing beneath their lids. The ice reallocates beneath him, thawed ones glistening his skin with moisture wherever it touches. His St. Christopher's medal suspends from his neck, the chain loose on his bare form, catching the light now and then.

Hours pass with nothing.

The subsequent kiss of failure is near, but not yet consented. She watches him from across the cell, tucked into the corner with her knees pressed against her chest. She doesn't move, her breathing is almost still, slow. Her hair hangs straight and errant strands hide her crystalline eyes. It's difficult to watch him so helpless, so subdued.

Her eyelids flutter, drooping. She's exhausted. Maybe she's attained five hours of sleep over the past three nights. She doesn't want to sleep, but her body protests differently. Doesn't want to leave him, but logic prevails. Slowly, gently, she gets to her feet. Her leg is in agony she barely recognizes, but knows rest will do it good. Her fingers splay against the Plexiglas for support, and she limps forward, picking up the cooler.

She makes one last trip upstairs to the freezer's icemaker, arranging the cubes around him with care. She shivers at the frigidness of the house she's achieved and pulls on a zippered hoodie from the cabinet at the other side of the room. She walks slowly back into the cell, looking down on him with sad, unreadable eyes. His fingers curl into fists as he stirs in his sleep, frown creasing his brow and lips. She kneels carefully, bringing her hand forward to stroke his cheek.

Her spirits wilt just a little, watching him one last time before the need to sleep becomes reluctant priority. He doesn't react to her touch, as he otherwise would. Her eyes scan over his form, taking in the damage, feeling the tears welling at their corners. She bites her lip, lowering her gaze.

_Listen…_ the voice is fainter.

She closes her hand over his larger one, intertwining their fingers as best she can. And then she does something incredible.

She closes her eyes, and prays. Calls upon that faith he so often wears with choking anguish.

* * *

_**August 25**__**th**__**, 2010**_

Awareness arrives slowly today.

Her body is one stiff mass of discomfort. The wound on her forehead brings a dull, sometimes burning ache. Her leg is dead weight, tight–as if compressed by a single great force. The car wreck the night previous probably doesn't benefit her, either. But she will rise, nevertheless.

She wears sweatpants and the same hoodie, burrowing further under the covers in response to the frigid air awaiting her. Gingerly, she draws back the blankets and duvet, slipping her sock-clad feet into the pair of sneakers dumped bedside. The colors are purple, yellow, and blue. Striped in fashion. The socks are not hers, but they'd kept her warm.

Pain shoots up her leg when she stands, delaying course at her quiet hiss. Carefully, she makes her way from the room. His pistol lies forgotten on the nightstand, though she'd given it a timid glance.

She'd never use it–not really. But the possible need for protection… She forces the thought away, focusing on descending the daunting staircase. She's yet to fully take care of the injury associated with her motor function, has neglected it impenitently. More important things have beleaguered her mind of late.

She's glad of the shoes on her feet. Even the socks she doesn't think would have protected them against the skating rink temperature of the tile flooring in the kitchen. She's thirsty, throat parched and dry. Her stomach grumbles emptily in protest as she overlooks the fridge during her pass-through.

Shadows spill over her as she enters the cramped hall leading down into the basement. The stairs creak, their grievances lost on her ears. Her vision has tunneled, and so irrelevant sound is muted. She holds her breath at the base of the stairs, closing her eyes against the blackness that surrounds her. Summoning her courage, she switches on the light and gradually, all the fluorescent fixtures flicker to life.

Stepping in, surrendering control, her eyes are not ready at all for what awaits. Her breathing has grown shallow, quick. Her heartbeat skips undecidedly. Moving slowly, she approaches the containment shelter. Sees that the door is still sealed. Faintly, she hears the quiet whir of the air-conditioning unit. Pressing her hand against the Plexiglas, her stomach plummets in response to the sight. The ice bed is empty, mostly melted. Her pulse speeds faster, concern clawing at her until she arrests in disbelief.

He's curled himself into the far corner of the cell, and he's shaking. _Shivering_–so badly that the fierce tremors make his body absolutely shudder. The air rushes from her lungs. Her heart somersaults through her body before returning to its rightful place to thud against her ribs.

Snapping into action, she cranks open the vacuum-sealed lock, tearing into the cell. Collapses to her knees beside him. Her quivering hands press against his back and shoulders, searching. He's ice to the touch, that terrible heat miraculously vanquished. "Booth? _Booth_? Can you hear me?" her voice is frenzied, octaves higher than normal.

His teeth are chattering violently, and he tries to make himself smaller. Incoherent words slip past his lips, but his speech is lost amongst the shaking. His eyes are wired shut against the fasciculations brought on by the extreme dropping temperature his body's assumed. Quickly, she turns off the cooling unit. Hurries into the outer room, cranking up the thermostat. Tearing open cabinets and shelves, she loads her arms with blankets.

Dropping beside him again, she enfolds his large frame in cotton and fleece, stimulates circulation in his chest and arms with her hands. She pulls him against her smaller body, cradling him, holding him tight. "It's okay, it's going to be okay," she whispers frantically, rubbing her arms over his back. "It's all right." He is still very pale–possibly from the temperature of his body–but nothing like the severity it had been. Lips show off an almost blue shade. All other symptoms are impossible to test due to his current condition, but she's adamant about the most crucial. "Look at me. Please, Booth–I need you to look at me," she breathes desperately, holding his face. Inches away, yet miles apart. "Open your eyes!"

Struggling, he folds against her, the warmth of her body drawing him in. Slowly, his eyes strain open, immediately locking on hers. Focusing on her, clinging to the tangible.

And it's _Booth_.

Him. It's him, him, it's _him_! Those brown eyes hold her gaze, concentrate, seek out the blue. The tremors continue, muscles contracting repeatedly, his breathing abrupt. Teeth chatter. His forehead presses against hers, hair in damp spikes, and her eyes fill with something alive. She seizes him to her, gasping into the blankets. "Oh God, _yes_! It's gone, it's gone, it's gone..."

Her hand presses against the nape of his neck, fingers buried in his dark hair. She laughs with unequivocal, irrevocable joy. She doesn't stop, can't. She rocks him, laughing wildly until the bell-like sound eventually transforms into something like breaking glass.

She cries over him, holds him. Kisses his forehead, his cheeks, his face. He's cured, the cure works, it _works_! He's safe. _Safe_.

Booth is cured.

* * *

_I will be the answer at the end of the line  
__In the burning of uncertainty  
__I will be your solid ground  
__I will hold the balance if you can't look down  
__If it takes my whole life, I won't break, I won't bend  
__It will all be worth it in the end  
__Because I can only tell you what I know  
__That I need you in my life  
__When the stars have all gone out  
__You'll still be burning so bright  
__Cast me gently into morning  
__For the night has been unkind_

-Answer-


	28. As One We are Eternal

**Author's Note: Okay, so I'm a little nervous. I've never written a scene like the one upcoming in this chapter. Something of this... caliber, I mean. I sincerely hope I did a good job, and I probably shouldn't have mentioned it here at the beginning author note because now you're all probably going to have it on your subconscious, lol. Anyways, I wasn't going to post until tomorrow or Friday, but I figured I may as well confront my fear head on and post this puppy, lol. **

**Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile!**

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN**  
AS ONE WE ARE ETERNAL

*

_Your strength is so hard to find  
I feel so much stronger now  
Your words make me whole again  
Those eyes cannot ever lie  
You're so divine, your smile is heavenly  
I don't deserve all the love that you're giving to me  
Your touch makes it hard to breathe  
The shiver's around me now  
I'm head over heels, goddess of mine  
Your curls touching my face, now I can fly  
You brought my life back, the glory you found  
I'm in deep debt, without you I wouldn't survive_

_I'm not ever alone, you're not ever alone  
The heart is pumping for my life  
The mind is happy and I  
I will love you 'til the day I die_

-Takida-

* * *

The day is bright and inviting. The sinking sun radiates warmth onto the stone steps of their porch, where he sits now. Something utterly peaceful about his atmosphere. Songbirds whistle and croon, infesting the trees. Fluttering happily. She's been watching him for some time, blue eyes waiting. She knows he's wondering when she'll join him, bathed in sunshine and exposed to the gentle late-summer wind. He's located on the topmost step, looking out at the world almost like the morning before. But different.

Everything's different. Changed.

A smile bends her lips in her study of him. Barely there, but her mind supplies the memories. The promise of new ones. Calmly, she moves for the open doorway, brushing past the jamb before arriving at the steps. She seats herself, folding almost soundlessly against him. A serene silence claims the air, both partners gazing out, cheeks sunkissed and glowing.

This is knowing. Words cannot explain the past several days. Time is irrelevant. He knows this, and she's glad they're so attuned to the other's emotions and needs. Words are not necessary–they don't need space. They need contact, something tangible. She leans against him, cheek brushing his shoulder through the freshly donned t-shirt. He returns the affection, her hair smooth and soft at his face. It's a reflection of a previous situation, but this time it's not grief that provokes the pose.

She hums a low and pretty melody, barely noticeable even in the relatively quiet day, somewhere distant on her mind. Booth smiles, bumps against her affectionately. "You're wearing my socks."

"Yes," she says. Contented, her hand seeks his out, fingers playing with his. _Interphalangeal joints, metacarpals._ "It's nice out here."

Together, they sit. Observing the world, their world. The life they've made for each other. He takes pleasure in her initiation of contact, still smiling. He ducks his chin to address her more directly. Always so happy to tease at her. "As opposed to inside the house–maybe we can adopt a few penguins?"

She turns her head slightly, eyes dancing over his, inches away. "Penguins are cute," she agrees with that half-smile that belongs to her. Belongs to him. He chuckles, deep in his throat, laugh lines creasing at his eyes. Sun on his face, backlighting that smile. He's perfect, she decides.

"Very cute."

"And when they waddle…" she goes on, using her flattened hand to demonstrate a penguin's flipper. Her smile grows wider, clear eyes shining. Auburn hair reflects the sun's rays. Thinking more on the ridiculous subject, a laugh escapes her lips, lighting up her face in the most extraordinary way.

She's perfect, he thinks. Not for the first time.

It's different somehow, innocent. But it's not. The acknowledgement, the understanding, is there. The deeper acceptance. He tucks her into his side with his free arm, grinning like any man in love. Turning his stubbly cheek, he whispers into her hair, "Thank you."

She initially shivers at the brush of his lips over her ear. But she knows. There's too much to say, so only the inadequate can be spoken. Her eyes slide shut against the warm tones of light, simply _feeling_ him next to her. Where he belongs. Where she needs him to be.

_Together_, they've endured.

They eat together just as always, bickering and jovial. There's a slight nervousness that's sweet and easy, but no more than that.

It's later when things begin to shift.

* * *

Various bloops and bleeps rule the air, derived from the very large television at the focus of the room. They've eaten supper early, and now indulge in video games aplenty. Not knowing why, but after everything, it's a welcome respite to indulge in such childish pastime.

The length of the couch is disregarded as they nestle up against each other, despite that they're vying for dominance on the screen. Since very early this morning, the space dividing them always feels too great. So they assume as little distance as dared. The change is very definite. Noticeably obvious. The bond they share is closer still, if such a feat is possible.

Brennan laughs quietly when more points rack up on her scoreboard, their thumbs clicking away. He nudges her with an amused pout. "Hands off my fruit, lady."

Her attention transfers from the screen, and her elbow pokes his ribs. "Then stay away from my crystals," she asserts.

She's uncomfortable to let him out of her sight, a little embarrassed by her blatant attentiveness. She braves to think what it might have been like were she cognizant of his recovery after being shot. She would have insisted on moving in with him, taking care of him. She'd of insisted on cooking him meals, helping him dress the wound, everything. Watch movies with him, board games, anything to keep him occupied. Demand he rest when too far exerted. Aiding him wherever needed or requested. Not that he would ever ask for help.

She's a little disappointed, still. The painful memory of that time now fresh again in her mind. She's glad though now that she's here for this. She hesitates to speak of it, but his recovery had been and still is progressing impeccably since last night. And she's glad for this silly game.

They're rival lovers on the screen, Crash and girlfriend Tawna. Booth is always Crash. Sometimes when he calls her Bones, she responds with this nickname for him. He doesn't protest, finds it comical. She's pretty sure he likes it. It's not equal–when her nickname had been bestowed, she'd hated it. At all times, she'd demanded he desist in referring to her by it. But it had grown on her. She loves it now, responds to it always.

He's Booth, though. Will always be Booth. But sometimes he's Crash. When the mood is light and the fate of the world unimportant.

At the start of their game, his half of the divided screen immediately fills with Mr. Bandicoot himself. Most often, she would assume the identity of Coco Bandicoot, sister to the star, but today she's Tawna.

He's never a sore loser if she wins, but he does often sulk with great fervor. It's charming, and, dare she say, cute. She ponders voicing this aloud, for he'd only pout further. It's a tempting prospect…

Without warning, she's blown from the course by some foreign object. Crash speeds by, waving happily. "Sorry, honey," he says to her, speaking assumedly of her alter ego with his own. He smiles sheepishly and she finds that she can't ignore the way the gesture tugs at her. Nevertheless, she pins him with those narrowed eyes, giving him a halfhearted glare. She growls petulantly in the back of her throat before turning back to the game. It's probably the most adorable thing he's ever seen.

For some time after, it's just the sounds of the game that fill the space. Brennan shifts beside him, bringing her legs up beneath her. He watches her thumbs peck away at the controller, watches her take her lower lip between her teeth in concentration.

It's unreal. Too incredible to have happened. What had transpired surely couldn't have. He's still waiting to wake up lost again.

She's so endearingly focused on the animated competition, small furrow to her brow, that she doesn't notice the way his eyes are seeing her. He's distracted from the game, and so pays no mind when he's blown clear off the overpass. Her sweeping triumph is the result. She squeals with delight and bounces in place. "I won!" she declares, whirling to face him. "I–" Her voice catches in her throat when she finds him looking at her. Bright smile fades a little, and she ducks her head in embarrassment. Expression sweetly tentative. "Um… that's probably poor sportsmanship."

But he doesn't care about that at all. His thoughts fill with what they'd both been too afraid, too uncertain, to say. It had been too much to say before. He doesn't know what triggers it now. Something infinitesimal.

Her lack of smile makes up for the large grin rapidly blooming on his face. "The cure works," he says at last, completely devoted to the words. Utterly devoted to her.

Her breath catches and she stares at him. Finally, and it isn't long, she laughs in agreement and there's something like tears in her eyes. The smile on her stunning, brilliant face is outrageous. "_Yes_," she breathlessly replies.

It feels right. Impulsive, maybe. Instinctive, definitely. His lips plant themselves firmly on her cheek. Pulling away, he stares down at her excitedly, foreheads meeting in shared success. "You did it," he tells her, grin splitting his face, dimples appearing. He's proud. _So_ _proud_ of her.

She laughs again. They're glowing, the both of them. She can never remember him looking at her like that. So utterly committed, as if nothing and no one else in the world exists except her. This smile is different, too. It's a delayed reaction, but that isn't what's important.

Before them, though unnoticed, the screen has lit up with fireworks and balloons, signaling her victory.

He hugs her to his chest, and her face muscles are aching with the prolonged smile. It's a quiet celebration, but this is precisely what she's imagined. Just the two of them, reveling in her achievement. Together. Later, he'll recover the congratulatory champagne from the basement, and they'll share drinks, together. She isn't alone, won't ever be again. The risk of losing him is gone.

Their watches go off, but it isn't the same. The foreboding alarm doesn't hold the uniform dreaded reaction. It's going to get better soon, there's nothing to fear. They have one more milestone warning before the need to lock up is necessary, but he draws away from her now.

"I'll…" The proximity between them is very little, and he stumbles over the word. Smiles haltingly. "We can get started now–save time later, I mean, if you wanted to duplicate more samples…"

Her eyes sweep over him carefully, large and blue. She clears her throat and nods, pursing her lips. "Yes. Good idea."

Their eyes meet, and a thousand words are exchanged. Suddenly, everything is static.

Clothing shuffles against the cushions of the couch, and he gets to his feet. "Yeah, okay," he confirms quietly.

She watches him as he assumes the routine, an hour or two ahead of schedule. Cheek still pleasantly burning. She almost touches her fingers to the tingling flesh in wonder, but stops herself short.

Hesitantly, she gets to her feet, still careful of her leg, and moves upstairs to seal off the barriers on location.

* * *

Closing off the last barricade on the upper level, she makes her way back down into the living room where a wall of tangible air welcomes her. He's fastening the last deadbolt over the steel shutters.

She approaches him quietly, observing him. When he finishes, he doesn't move away from the locked structure, his posture indicating his knowledge of her presence. "We'll do more tomorrow," he decides with quiet confidence, tracing the steel bends and ridges with his hand. Deep in thought. That contemplative furrow graces his forehead, and she almost knows every line and contour of his face by heart now.

She nods, despite that he doesn't see it. Her voice is equally low. Faith shared. "I know."

Something else is different, too. She gravitates toward him until they're side by side, heart racing. Like an armada of butterflies has taken her stomach as refuge. She isn't sure what she's doing, but her thoughts are fuzzy. Brain is unquestionably in neutral.

He's alive, she's reminded. His tall, solid form is as tangible and real as ever. Not only is he alive, he's… he's _Booth_. Safely returned to her, because of her. But not because of her alone. Her hand finds his arm, trailing down until she finds his fingers and laces them with hers. He returns the hold, neck craning to watch her as she bares the inside of his wrist to her eyes. She traces the pads of her fingers lightly, slowly, over the black inked Kanji symbol, making him shiver.

_Fate_. And the other, _Soul_.

"How'd you know?" His husky voice breaks the silence between them. She knows exactly the context of his question. Raising her eyes to his, almost glowing in the low light, she drifts forward a few steps. He swears he can hear that beautiful melody she'd been humming before.

This is it. _The_ moment, and the very last moment to be lost, broken, or delayed. "I listened," she whispers. It's more a breath than combination of words.

Defender of the faith. This is him, who he is. He's given her that unfailing belief, shared between each of them. Siren eyes stare up at him, clear and trusting. This is her. Ever unquestioning of him, ingenuous to consequence. He is her reason. She searches his face, hands still joined. She knows the lethal power he is capable of. If pushed far enough, brown eyes can shade nearly black with rage. She's seen it, witnessed his wrath unleashed unto enemies and monsters alike.

And yet those eyes as they look at her now shine with utmost gentleness. There's something in them she's never seen before–not this potent. Never so exposed. It's terrifying, but at the same time, it isn't. This is her partner, there is nothing to fear. She's never had to fear anything when at his side.

It means everything.

"I'm glad you're…" her small voice trails off, too much to say in one sentence. Too much to reveal. Swallowing, she struggles for her voice. Lips quiver, throat catches. "I'm glad."

He's frozen, unable to move a muscle under those eyes, that stare. Unable to take his eyes off the woman in front of him. He tries to acknowledge and reflect her words, but his throat isn't working. Their dangerous proximity is making him lightheaded. Their pulses pound within their coupled hands, creating one fervent heartbeat.

This is who they're becoming.

She can't understand this feeling. But she does understand that it has no explanation. He's taught her this. It's something purely felt. Some things are just so magnificent that they defy any and all explanation.

_More things dreamt of in heaven and earth…_

Honesty compels her to admit that this feeling of absolute safety while in his presence dazzles her more than his famous smile or admittedly solid structure ever has. When she looks at him now, it isn't sexual desire that stirs within her, but something more. Something far more reckless. "I can't hurt you anymore."

The words tremble in the air between them, alive and nearly corporeal. Their eyes catch fire, each unable to look away from the light shining in the other. Each sharing in the identical gray halo circling the irises of their eyes.

Partners for eternal.

Barely noticeable, but _they_ know. Will always know of the blood and tears put into making this cure possible for humanity.

The gentle _pitter-pat_ against the outer panes is finally heard. Ever so soft and temperate. Not a storm, by far. But a cleansing fall. Rain gives birth to moments. Each drop a chronicle of existence, a tentative reply to novel awareness. New, immaculate touch. Somehow, even her gaze is unique to him. Something different about it, _looking_ at him differently. Her eyes shine like dual stars in a winter sky. Not static, but constantly changing, shining, _beckoning_.

Her hands are shaking, his heart is pounding. He leans further down, like a magnet drawn to its other half, and she can't help but do the same. The space apart becomes the space between instead.

The spark is immediate. Robbed of conscious thought upon contact.

Their lips move slowly, explore slowly, the sensation almost hypnotizing. Her breath seizes in her throat at the experience. She feels weightless, lost in him. Aware only of him. He feels the static that he's always felt between them, shifting and moving. Evolving. He's never felt anything like it. Overwhelming, incredible. He's dreaming, he must be.

He feels love in this kiss. Feels love radiating from her.

Neither needs to say it. Speaking such unconditional truth aloud would make it somehow inadequate. But _knowing_… _sharing_ in that truth as one whole is perfect bliss. When words are not needed to convey such profound passion. Unspoken yet always present. They pull away when the need for air becomes necessary. He has to make a conscious effort to breathe. Exhaling, their foreheads meet, eyes locking. Reading, wondering, showing. She needs to feel that again. That magnificent, glorious feeling of flying and falling all at once.

Again, their mouths collide. Lips parting, breath mingling. Tasting victory. Tasting desperation, and trust. Unconditional trust.

He reaches up with both hands, one delving into her hair, fingers lost in the auburn. The other frames her cheek, thumb caressing away the grateful emotion slipping from her eyes. It shifts, falling to rest naturally at the small of her back. And she's missed this. Oh, has she _missed_ this. That triggering of nerves at the base of her spine. It's them, she remembers this. It's always been this. His hand fits perfectly, where it was meant to be placed.

When he takes a step closer, she whimpers into his mouth at the shift of pressure on her injured leg. Instantly, he senses her discomfort, reacts. Strong arms circle her waist, drawing her up off her feet with effortless ease. Impulsively, her legs fold around his hips and the journey to the unused bedroom on the second floor is traveled in his arms.

It's a blur. A dream, but not.

It's real, it's them. It's perfect.

Her back sinks into the mattress, the blankets accepting her form. He smoothes the stiffness from her with gentle hands, making her tender muscles breathe with new life. His touch sends a beautiful ache throughout her being. The feeling of weightlessness returns.

His lips seek the junction between the column of her neck and shoulder. Magnificent. Soft, flawless.

She knows she must not look the finest. Makeup absent, bruised, abrasion marring her face. When she voices this though, embarrassed for what she deems unattractive, he removes his mouth from her throat to look her in the eyes. _Warm and reassuring brown eyes… _

"You're beautiful," he tells her seriously, voice low and emotional, and she believes him. There's a beautiful pain in her chest at his declaration, and she's gasping a sob when his mouth finds hers again.

_And yes, he's handsome, and she's beautiful… _

Leaning back, able to look at him again, he finally sees their future in her eyes. Twin turquoise stars show him all he needs to see. Everything. Consumed by emotion, she kisses him. Arms tangling around his neck, she draws him down to her. Enjoying the pleasant weight, the strength in his arms.

It's hungry, but not ravenous. It isn't lust she feels, no. The spreading warmth often felt in the spans of her lower belly instead blossoms strongly within her chest above her heart. This is what had been missing before in her life. Now, she feels utterly complete. Completely loved and adored. He feels it to, that perfection. That precious need.

_I've stood over death with her, I've faced down death with her…_

Her hair is silk under his fingertips, slipping through them like sand in an hourglass. He feels his t-shirt drawn up over his head, soft lips pressing against where the scar left by a bullet merges with the fading evidence of a dog bite. His hands work against the fastenings of her clothing. Slowly, without hurry. They have only time.

She says his name, breathless and sweet, and it's heaven. Fair, angelic skin responds to each gentle caress. Her hands explore the hard planes of his chest, the muscles of his arms and broad frame. Trace patterns on his back. The invisible burden fades from his shoulders, and for these shining moments, he forgets about all he's done. All the guilt, the suffering.

In this moment, he feels unquestionably forgiven. Overwhelmed, he blinks against the sudden rise of tears. An instant later, her gentle touch smoothes them away. Without judgment or derision.

Together, they're found. Both thinking the same thing.

_Home. This feels like home. _Legendary. Two souls making their mark in their own history, needing the other to truly live. Denied each other for one whole year, too afraid to take the step across that line for the four previous.

_Someone you're meant to spend the rest of your life with…_

Her back arcs and their fingers entwine.

Their lips seal, not an inch of space between them. Pale and tan, two imperfections creating a single flawless devotion. His words from years ago hold perfect truth, for she doesn't know where she ends and he begins.

Truly complete in match. Made for one another.

_A miracle. _

When daylight invades their world, their pact is broken and a new one forged.

This is who they've become.

* * *

_Close your eyes  
Let me give you something that is real  
Close the door and leave your fears behind  
Let me give you what you're giving me  
You are the only thing that makes me want to live at all  
When I am with you, there's no reason to pretend  
When I am with you, I feel flames again  
I would never ever leave you_

-Flames-


	29. Achieving that Blessed Redemption

****

**Author's Note: Thank you guys so much for your encouragement on the last chapter! Haha, I feel so much better that my first time writing a love scene was a success. I tried to keep it very emotional and not graphic. I know I might be in the minority, but I can't stand just mindless smut. Lol, what's wrong with me, right? lol. Anyways, carry on! **

**Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile!**

* * *

**CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT  
**ACHIEVING THAT BLESSED REDEMPTION

*

_When you have come to the edge of all light that you know  
And are about to drop off into the darkness of the unknown  
Faith is knowing one of two things will happen:  
There will be something solid to stand on  
Or you will be taught to fly_

-Patrick Overton-

* * *

_**August 26**__**th**__**, 2010**_

The early morning is kind. Lulling both the fatigue and energy away, leaving her with a strangely numb contentment. She doesn't rely on this avenue of thought for long. Instead, she's simply still.

She's been wakeful for a while. At ease in his arms, tracing her fingers slowly, gently, over his skin. Fascinated by the way it dips slightly under the soft pressure. Incredibly tired–the past few days catching up to her–but she doesn't crave sleep. She wants to be aware of this, this closeness. Fingernail outlines the chain of the St. Christopher's medal, the only thing on his sleeping form. It winks the low, muted light back at her, making the colors of her eyes idly dance.

His chest rises and falls slowly beneath her cheek. She mentally counts the makeup of his skeletal structure beneath her touch. Being deprived of her loved profession for too long.

_Clavicle… sternum… _

_Tie goes here. Metal chain goes here. _He doesn't wear ties anymore, but the delightful myriad of colors she remembers well.

After naming all the ribs, still trying to occupy herself in order to remain awake, she moves on to the musculature structure.

_Deltoid. _Sometimes exposed by those sleeveless shirts he favors.

_Sternocleidomastoid. _Once hidden by white dress shirt collars, now sometimes concealed behind those of a black combat jacket. Available entirely to her now, throat bared. Tanned and strong.

_Pectoralis major. _Bruised by bullet and biting daggers. Broad, they safeguard the devoted heart beneath.

_Biceps brachii._ Ideal for sheltering hugs that exude warmth and affection.

_Abdominis. _Smooth, flat.

Her eyelids droop, fingers stilling in their leisurely task. For just a moment, she closes her eyes, listening to the heartbeat beneath her ear. She smiles. It's normal, slowed. That promising _thump-thump _of ordinary grace_. _She's never heard anything more beautiful. It's a wonder her own heart can even beat–being so full of Seeley Booth instead of what should be running through her veins. Strangely exquisite.

Her gaze rests on the fading scars near the right side of his chest. They're little more than weakening nightmares, barely visible now. Still, they make her stomach knot. It hurts, these memories. There are more. Faint data, scattered over his form, some almost faded completely. One day, she'll learn all his scars.

Impulsively, a kiss to his shoulder. _Thank you, _she reflects silently. Gratefully. At the contact, he shifts just a little. Sighs quietly. Protective embrace curls around her just a little more, strong arms drawing her close in his slumber. Even so, she's never seen him sleep so deeply. Eyes traveling up his form, he looks completely at ease. Youth is rekindled in the peaceful expression on his sleeping face.

That brow isn't drawn into a constant worry line. Lips aren't pursed with seething concern. No, dark hair disheveled endearingly, eyelashes content to rest over his angled cheekbones, he's happily lost to the world. And she can't take her eyes off of him. Can't stop looking at him. Even with her eyelids heavy, she watches him. She's waiting for him to reveal his wakefulness and tease her lovingly about her new creepy pastime, but soon she's already lost to blessed oblivion.

Asleep in his arms.

* * *

The second time awareness tugs at her consciousness, it's the sunlight coaxing her awake. Despite the warmth bathing her affectionately, there's a developing cold spot next to her. Rolling over, she sees the empty space. Curious, she yawns quietly and eases into a sitting position, pulling the sheets over her form. The window barriers are open and inviting, so he's risen for the day.

A most delicious smell floats from the hallway, filling her senses and rendering her almost to butter. Ready to investigate, she retrieves his t-shirt from the floor, tugging it on. Stretching languidly.

"Morning." His warm voice carries from the doorway, and she can already see the smile in his voice. He's dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and it must be contagious, because she gives him a shy smile in return.

Nothing has changed between them. And yet everything has changed.

Everything's different. But it's not. Despite its irrelevance, time allows the evolution of growth. The adaptation of budding devotion.

"Good morning." She sinks herself onto her elbows and tousles her hair with her fingertips. Then she smiles at him. He smiles back. And for a while, that's all that happens. Finally, she laughs–and it isn't awkward–but a pink flush tinges her cheeks.

If it's at all possible, the grin grows larger. Boyish. "I made pancakes." Expectant enthusiasm decorates his face, and the laughter breaks from her lips again like a chorus of bells. He reveals the two plates from behind the jamb, where they'd been sitting on the hall table. Patting the space next to her, she grins excitedly and he takes up a spot beside her on the bed.

Hers are smaller, dotted with strawberries that leave a smiling face staring up at her from the top pancake. She laughs huskily, touched. A tiny _aww_murmurs in the quiet space. This should annoy her, but it doesn't. "For the severe snuggler in my life," he says, pressing a kiss at her temple.

"I knew you were awake," she says, poking him in the ribs. He chuckles as she nestles up against him, long bare legs tangling with his. His own plate is caked in syrup and she snickers approvingly. "That's disgusting." He laughs heartily, taking a large bite from his fork. She pats his stomach affectionately, shakes her head in amazement. "I don't know where you put it."

"I'm a growing boy, Bones," he says, nudging her.

She's about to retort when she takes a bite of her own. "_Oh._ Wow…"

"Good?"

She's amused at how much he brightens at her praise, lets her eyes roll back in pleasure. "Yes. These are fantastic."

"Diggin' the pancakes, huh?" he grins.

"Very much so."

"Well, if you're especially good, I'll have to make you _my_ famous Mac and Cheese for dinner."

After a moment of careful contemplation, she looks at him out of the corner of her eye, smiling coyly. "Booth family recipe?"

He lowers his plate, bumping his nose against hers. "_Secret_ family recipe," he whispers conspiratorially. The press of his lips against hers is just another reminder to her of how real and alive he is. She finds herself sighing happily against his mouth as she kisses him back. A kiss that's both sugary and sweet.

"Mmm… it's a good thing I can keep a secret."

He chuckles quietly and she feels the gentle reverberations through his chest beneath her roaming hand. Plates become forgotten on the bed. "Good thing," he agrees. His own investigative hands tickle the sensitive skin of her sides through the thin fabric of the t-shirt. He nuzzles his nose into her hair. "You're wearing my shirt." He means to sound annoyed, but he can't seem to exude anything but affection today.

"Yes," she contends matter-of-factly. His lips are performing admirable feats upon her neck.

"You keep stealing my clothes, I might have an empty closet. Then what?"

"I'll be extremely happy. Nevertheless, if your supreme need to nurture your Puritan modesty arises, you can always borrow from my closet."

His barking laughter abruptly shatters the calm, and she's laughing now, too. Both shaking with collective mirth. Eyes dancing, he rests his forehead against hers, delighting in the dawning smile that lights up her face. The sweetest thing he's ever seen.

Eyes adoring, gazing, everything is the way it's supposed to be. Perfection. He brushes a copper strand gently from her face, pulling back a little. There's a tightness in his chest, stomach feeling like it's just underwent a hundred foot drop. And suddenly he's terrified. "I love you, you know," he says quietly.

Her smile fades a little at the gravity of his words, but doesn't vanish from her face. Softly, she takes his hand in hers, places it over her heart where she feels the warmth spread. Holds his eyes with her own, showing.

His heart pounds somewhere in the vicinity of his throat as he waits for her reaction. Lungs scream for release because he barely registers he's holding his breath.

"I know," she smiles. Kisses him. It rolls off her lips like it's the easiest thing she's ever said. The truest, most important . "I love you, too."

He exhales, and then his breath catches again, holds. He'd had no idea what those three words would do to him once they came from her mouth, if they ever would. Slowly, the brightest smile she's ever seen breaks across his face. Makes the infamous Charm Smile look positively restrained. And he _laughs_, but it's different. The happiest sound she's ever heard from him. He deserves this contentment, after suffering through so much. They both do.

She shrieks when his previously teasing hands launch attack at her sides, his lips peppering her in chaste kisses. She laughs, head thrown back, auburn waves fanned across the pillow. Returns the euphoric affection when his roving lips meet hers.

She tugs impatiently at his shirt, like a cat being deprived of her new favorite toy. He stills her hands with a gentle smile, amused by her eagerness. "You're tired," he reminds softly when their breathing returns to normal, gazing down at her.

He chuckles at her disappointed pout. Lowering himself onto his side beside her, he traces her face, kisses her forehead. "You've been through Hell and high water these past couple of days. Plus you've openly neglected that injury on your leg. Don't think I hadn't noticed," he interrupts her attempt at rebuttal. Gives her a stern glare.

There's a darkening flicker in his eyes, a vulnerability, and she knows it to be guilt from the wrongful blame he puts on himself for her injury. She's displeased, but can't ignore the same painful wound throbbing on her outer thigh. As always, he's right. Sighing heavily, she sinks into the mattress, still figuratively sore for being denied the attentions of her partner.

She wants to explore this new sensation further. Wants to learn more about him, in this way. Craves this requited love and resolved but further captivating desire. "Rest, Temperance," he tells her earnestly, smoothing a hand over her hair. "We'll take care of routine later. Among other things," he adds cheekily at her reminding poke to his chest. Her pinched mouth and large, hungry eyes.

She twitches her nose in contemplation, considering his words. A deeper emotion swells in her being, and she meets his eyes in somber askance. "Today, I don't want to leave. The world can wait," she says with feeling. "Just… _stay_. Stay here, with me."

He catches her stare, returns it meaningfully. "Okay," he smiles, happy to please her. Softly, he presses another kiss to her forehead. "But for now, sleep."

She nods against the pillow, compliant to his wishes. He knows how difficult it is for her to put voice to the words, these words. And so he's proud of her, honored that she ask. "Take care of me?" So soft, barely enough to break the air between them.

A single peck on her nose. Those brown eyes warm her from the outside in and give assurance. "Of course."

* * *

**  
**_**July 28**__**th**__**, 2009**_

_He's at the diner when she finds him. Brown curls are loose, even browner eyes heavy and sullen. This isn't her, this poor worried creature. _

_He isn't staying. He's come for some food–he has to eat. Much as he has no mood for it. __Not many frequent the tiny restaurant, not anymore. People stay home, fear the world. They aren't wrong to do so. He just doesn't fear it. __He hates it. _

"_You saw it." It isn't a question. Her voice isn't steady, fractures taint every syllable. _

_He saw it. _

"_I don't think she's coming back," the artist frets, hands shaking as she presses the letter onto the counter. _

_He's yet to look at the woman beside him. But he shakes his head. "She won't." __God, he isn't hungry. He's even less so when the mask-wearing waitress slides him his takeout container. He'll force himself to eat, as he does every night. _

"_She just… she just left us these_ letters_. Specifically addressed to all of us."_

_One for each and every squint. For all her family. _

_Except him. _

_He forces down the painful boulder in his throat and snatches the food box from the counter. Ready to leave, though he's not sure where he's going. He can't go to the lab–too painful. Hoover, maybe. Home, most likely. _"_Well, at least she said goodbye," he tells her dryly, the inward feeling of his apparent unimportance almost too much to bear. _

_He tries to brush past her, but she prevents his departure with a pleading look. Tears swimming in her eyes. "She wrote us all letters," Angela says. "Except you." __He tries to ignore the insistent tug in his chest that returns with her words. He's already had phone calls from her father, brother, all the squints. Hell, even her publisher. He doesn't have any answers for them. _

_He attempts another escape, but her arm catches him across the shoulders, stalling him. She's stronger than she looks. Or perhaps he's just unwilling to put up a fight. _

"_It's because she plans on seeing you again," she chokes out, the tears spilling down her cheeks. It hurts that her goodbye has been issued through a piece of paper, but she knows this man is the only solid factor their mutual friend will cling to. __He stills at this revelation, that tiny part of him yet seeking any fiber of hope jumping at the very rational explanation. _

_Angela squeezes his hand, brown eyes drilling into his in earnest. "It's you, Booth. You know she'll come running to you." He feels his throat catch, emotion swelling in his chest. The pressure of it insufferable. "When the hour is dark, you are the light she seeks." Drawing him down with a single hand, she presses a desperate kiss to his cheek, evidence of her emotional torment transferring to his own face. "Take care of her." _

_It's an order, a plea. It's the last time he'll see her. _

_He meets her eyes, conveying the deep truth that circulates his thoughts. His innermost loyalties. _

_He offers a discreet, solemn nod. _

Of course.

* * *

Feeling something tickling at her nose, she scrunches it up in response. Slowly blinks her eyes open to find herself staring into endless brown and greeted with that smile of his. He stills in the effort of tapping her nose with a lock of her own hair, breath caught in his throat. He looks utterly mesmerized, lips parting to release a soft sigh. Eyes riveted to her face.

This woman, who he's done unspeakable things for, who he's loved from afar for as long as he can remember, is smiling up at him now with adoration laid bare. _Those_ eyes… loving _him_. "Wow…" he whispers, barely a sound. So quiet she'd nearly had to read his lips.

She wonders what he can mean, briefly curious if there's something on her face, or if her hair is tangled in an amusing nest. "What?"

"It's just… seeing you. You know… waking up next to me." So very quiet. He still seems endearingly bashful to their shift of relationship. Perhaps she is, too. This is just as new to her. Still, she's hesitant, not quite understanding his meaning. A soft smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, drawing the dimples into sight. She traces them fondly with her finger. "I like it, Bones."

Her nose crinkles with the way her own smile stretches her face. "Me, too."

Angling her face up to him, she gently meets his lips with hers. He hums a pleasantly surprised response deep in his throat, eyes fluttering closed. Both smile against each other's mouths.

When she pulls away, she fixes him with a teasing glare. "I thought you wanted me to rest."

"I did."

She pokes him twice in the abdomen, blue eyes sparking with light badgering. "What, did you get bored?"

"No," he protests with a wounded expression that has her stifling her laughter. "I let you sleep for a few hours. Even had time to fix Fred while Sleeping Beauty was getting her much needed breather."

_Uh oh._

"Fred?" Provoked into amused reciprocation, she rolls him over onto his back without warning and surprising strength. Leans over him, the ends of her hair tickling his face. If he minds being manhandled by a woman, it doesn't show in the least. In fact, he seems to be greatly enjoying the exchange.

He chuckles at the way her eyes widen at the mention of their former ally-cum-nemesis-cum-puddle scrap. His playful look turns immediately to one of angelic innocence. "Of course. He was all by his lonesome–_lonesomes_, actually, if you count the dispersal of his limbs–out there by the bank in the scary dark." As an afterthought, he explicates, "Duck taped the poor bastard."

She rolls her eyes, though richly amused. Folds of his t-shirt crinkle under her curious hands over his chest. "How very considerate of you, given that you were the one who saw fit to blow him to bits. Sleeping Beauty is a fictional princess, correct?"

He laughs at her abrupt backtrack of topic, nodding appropriately. "Yes. Anyway, I have a surprise for you. You can rest on the couch while you enjoy it." His eyes are alight with ill-contained enthusiasm, fixed on her hopefully.

She moans at the prospect of removing herself from the encompassing blankets and burrows herself further into a warming cocoon. He laughs at her antics, sliding from beneath her and tugging at the covers. She cracks an eye at him, still looking supremely annoyed. "Come on, wakey, wakey," he indulges of her softly, brown eyes sparkling. Her resolve cracks. His smile broadens. "Ha! Let's go, lazy Bones," he triumphs.

She snorts into the pillow while swatting him away.

* * *

On the coffee table in the living room, both Peter Pan movies faithfully await. The first is already set to the menu screen on the large television, drawing her in with impossibly airborne individuals and soothing, uplifting musical scores.

She stares in amazement, breathy laugh escaping her agape jaw. He smiles widely, patting the spot next to him on the sofa, where she seats herself on the opposite end, feet in his lap.

As they watch, sometimes laughing, always enjoying, the charming classic, he sets to work on her injured leg. Gauze and sterilizing solutions pave another corner of the small table, and for a few hours, it's just them and Pan.

* * *

She inhales quickly at the unexpected sting of the alcohol. His face becomes instantly apologetic. "Sorry," he whispers, focused on his task. "I think it may be infected…"

She unconsciously cringes at the word, pain in her eyes, and he's looked up again in time to catch the event. She cranes her neck away, eyes sliding closed. She bites her lip to still its tremble. Two times today, she's been reminded of his awful accident.

"Hey."

She doesn't start when she feels his fingers under her chin, guiding her back. She unwillingly meets his eyes as they bore into hers, soft and all the more brown in his concern.

"I'm fine, Temperance," he reminds, voice no higher than the low murmurs of the Lost Boys on the screen. Suddenly, she isn't paying attention to the movie. "You saved me." Anything she might have responded with clogs in her throat. Her lips press tightly together, and she nods.

Appearing to detect her unwillingness on the subject, though quiet acceptance, he smiles gently and sets back to work. At ease again, she slumps lower into the cushions, exhaustion still clouding her brain cells and motor function. She thinks she might have drifted off a little when his voice invades her thoughts again.

"There," he says, smoothing the bandage gently over her thigh. Able to access the injury due to her small pajama shorts. "Feel better?"

"Mmm," she sighs, reclined back against the sofa cushions, still tempted by the realm of sleep. Refusing to give in though, so that they may finish the movie together. "Yes. Thank you."

"_What's wrong, Peter?" _

"_You can fly now. You can go home…" _

Wincing slightly at the sad exchange, Brennan blinks her eyes against the surprising emotion pricking behind them. Shifting, she scoots to the side more to accommodate her partner. She's learned now what she needs at times like these. "Come up here by me?"

Nodding with a half-smile, seemingly sensing her change of mood, he crawls up between her and the back of the couch. Once in place, she shifts to lay atop him, cheek resting against the soft fabric of his t-shirt.

"_Hello, Peter," Wendy, a beautiful woman now instead of a pretty young girl, greets shyly of her old friend. _

_He tilts his head to the side, eyes wide and troubled. He floats idly beside the window, turns away, saddened. "You've changed," he says quietly. _

_She smiles though, if a little saddened herself. Still, a brave face extends to him. Gentle fingers brush his chin, ask him back. "Not really." _

Booth feels a spot of moisture seep through his shirt, but remains silent on the subject. Her head's tucked under his chin, and he assumes a calming pattern with his hand over her back.

_The boy seems better contented, but his smile doesn't reach his eyes. He waves, Tinkerbell fluttering faithfully at his shoulder. "Goodbye, Wendy." _

Her bottom lip quavers, but she takes it between her teeth to still it. The credits roll, bittersweet music sounding from the speakers. She's brave enough to say it now. "Peter and Wendy never got their happy ending."

It's mumbled faintly against his chest, and she almost hopes he doesn't hear. His hand stills over her, and she can feel the gentle vibrations in his chest when he speaks almost as softly. "Is that what you're looking for, Bones? A happy ending?"

She turns her head against him, but doesn't meet his eyes. "Maybe," she admits quietly.

A silence descends around them, and he's the first to end it. He kisses her once, soft as a feather, on the lips. Ducks his head to catch her eyes. Tousled curls frame her pale face, blue gaze sad but open for him to read. "I haven't left you," he tells her, his own voice a little choked by the raw emotion. And she swears she can see that second star glimmering in his eyes.

She sniffs, blinking her eyes against the welling tears. Nods. She buries her face against his chest, hugging him tightly. Sighs heavily, but expels the negative emotion. "I just… I wish Angela was still around." She laughs lightly, happy to remember her friend, sad to remember her gone. "It seemed her foremost desire to see us together, for whatever reason. It's sad that she'll never get to now. I wish it could be different."

He smiles gently, lips pressing softly against her hair, just barely. "Have faith, Bones."

He knows it's a long shot, but she's glad he'd said it.

* * *

"There," she announces happily, withdrawing the syringe to seal it away for safekeeping. Their eyes meet tentatively, and she peeks at him from under her lashes. Her smile is modest, searching. Her fingers dance over his hands, also searching, and he accepts them. Folds them in his warm grasp. Her voice is low, and he sees the scientist, the woman, and the friend she has always been reborn. Like a phoenix, she's also new, and there're galaxies in her eyes. "The Booth Cure."

It's later, now. The sun is still relatively high in the sky, but dinner will be ready soon. Her stomach flips at the look he gives her. Rejoices as one side of his mouth pulls up into her favorite uneven smile. "Booth Cure, huh?" he echoes in amusement, seated on the exam table comfortably. Much more at ease than previous times.

"Yes," she confirms, cheeks rounding with her grin. Pleased with her decision. "Now everyone gets a little Booth in their life."

He tosses her a goading smile, eyebrows jumping in question. "Not jealous, Dr. Brennan?"

That half-smile lights up her face. "I'll share the love." A second later though, and it's vanished. "But with conditions, of course." She takes his hand possessively, pouting petulantly. "They'd better be dead or dying. My caveman," she asserts.

He laughs, happy to be owned, and it's a nice sound. He draws her in for a quick kiss and a hug. He will never get tired of this. "My squint," he agrees. He nudges her affectionately, grin threatening to split his face. The dimples are back. "Alpha female."

She squawks as though affronted, jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow. He slings an arm around her shoulder and pulls her in close, chuckling as they make their way up the stairs. Deliriously happy.

And there it is.

Warnings never come paired with things so pivotal, so powerfully critical.

Drawing near to the hall, his smile slowly fades until he stills them completely. Frozen. "What is that?" His entire demeanor has solidified. Spine rigid, shoulders severe. He reminds her of a panther, ready to pounce. Ready to defend. Immediately, mirroring his posture, reacting against his movements, she is on the alert as well. Both completely attuned to the other's actions and thoughts.

"What?" she prods, suddenly concerned. Entering into the kitchen, they hear it again.

Static.

Suddenly, the back of her neck is on fire, nerves aquiver. Heart throbs, but hasn't quite begun to excel yet. "Did you leave the television on?" she grasps.

"No."

It's a dull sound, what his voice has become. Approaching the entryway, both brown and blue gazes lock on the radio communicator.

More static. And then, "_We're at… hello… ask that you help… please, help. We need… at the Hoover Building…" _More than one speaker. The message itself is chaos. But the hellish shock boiling in the pits of their stomachs is no less because of it.

"Oh my God."

* * *

_The events in our lives happen in a sequence of time  
But in their significance to ourselves, they find their own order:  
The continuous thread of revelation._

_-_Eudora Welty-


	30. All War is Deception of Good Intent

******Author's Note: Sorry for the wait, peeps. Was rigorously working on another project. Arriba, then! **

**********Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**************Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile!**

* * *

**CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE  
**ALL WAR IS DECEPTION OF GOOD INTENT

*

_If you are ready to believe  
You are easy to deceive_

-Proverb-

* * *

"You kept up the transmission?" Booth presses with scything urgency, slamming articles into a small duffel bag. His movements are fast, calculated. He's been in the position before, needing to move and vacate an area in mere minutes, but never under these circumstances. She's still reeling from the garbled bombshell that still claims the air, a phantom presence on her ears. Their own attempt at a communication had fallen flat. There was no further response from the broken unknown at their desperate reply.

"Of course," Brennan maintains at last, startled out of her silence at the volume his voice carries.

"Every day?" Terse. This is military Booth in front of her. For a reason beyond her reach, this placates her. She can't seem to grasp anything tangible, mentally or otherwise, so it's a relief that he's taken charge of the situation. No matter how hard he tries to hide the way his hands shake.

"_Yes_." Her words are clipped, adamant. Finally, his resolve wakes a dormant part of her own. She feeds off his collectedness. The volume fades though, and she seems almost ashamed. "Even when..." He slows in his methodical work, waiting for her reply as though standing over a bed of smoldering stones. "Those last few days, when it was at its worst, I didn't want to." At his look, she elaborates. "You asked me to."

It's simple, but it's everything.

There's no time for a moment. He gives a barely perceptible nod, conveying a lifetime of passion with his eyes when they have only moments. Breaking from her, he's back to his one-man operation. Guns are finding their way into the bag. Watching him with wide eyes, heart racing, she can't prevent the crease at her brow. "What are you doing?"

He ignores the horror in her voice, knows that he has to. "The source communication came from the Hoover Building, we know that much. Background noise suffered the quality, but I'm dead certain there was more than one speaker. We need to–"

"Booth, there's no _time_." Did that terrified gasp come from her?

"What?"

"There's barely more than an hour left of _daylight_. Hoover's at least fifteen minutes away. There's no time for this kind of recovery!" Logical, as ever. Incredulous at his motivations.

"It doesn't matter. It _can't_ matter. These people–"

Before she knows it, she's blocking his path. Barely realizes she's begging him without any thought of pride or empirical filter. "Don't you understand? One hour, and the Infected will be awake. And they'll _come for us_. I can't… no, I can't risk it. _You_ can't risk it!" Grasping his arms, she leans herself into his space, pleading her case. It's not fair of her, but the desperation is tearing her apart. There's a great, swelling pit in the bottom of her stomach and she feels the frightened burn of emotion that's filmed over her eyes, making him almost incorporeal to her. "_Please_," she breathes, voice fainting away into a whisper. "I just… I just got you back. _Don't_."

He feels her intensity, eyes imploring, locked on his. It kills him, knowing that he's the cause of that fresh pain pooling behind her gaze, constricting around her heart. But it's too important, he needs her to understand. He's heartsick, but weakly resolute. Voice small, choked with emotion. "Bones… there could be kids."

Resolve fractures, splits open at the unbridled supplication in his eyes.

Hating the idea. Absolutely sick with it. But he has her. "_Dammit_," she bites bitterly, disgusted but claimed by righteousness. Her chin falls, and she's wincing. "You'd better pack that elephant gun ammo."

He wastes no time following her surrender. "Pack everything you need. All of it." There's a new fracture to his voice, a new determination.

"What do you mean?"

"We may not make it back here." And there it is. Sometimes she hates the truth. "Everything you absolutely need from the house, pack it. Five minutes, and we're gone."

* * *

**  
**_**July 27**__**th**__**, 2009**_

_A knock on the office glass. He isn't surprised to see Max darkening his doorway. _

_He doesn't issue a greeting, it isn't necessary. His partner's father enters of his own volition, taking a seat across from him. Desk dividing the two killers. One trained, one learned. _"_You know why I'm here," the older man says. That lighthearted, sometimes wily grin is absent from his face. He carries himself with ten extra years, the emotional weight heavy on his aging shoulders. There's a painful twist to his face. Those who carry themselves with such cheer all the time should never have to look so miserable. _"_This isn't going to blow over," Max continues, dark blue eyes grave. Leaden with a father's sad concern. "You know that."_

_Booth suddenly can't meet the older man's eyes, which is an anomaly alone. His throat tightens, making his voice strained. "I know," he says quietly. _

"_Chances are… they're going to try and bring her in." _

"_I know." _

"_I can't help her on this one," Max laments, and the old con's heart feels suspiciously shredded at the very confession. "One crooked fed here and there, monsters under the bed–I can handle that. But this is too big. Living clean, some of my connections have dried up. Not to mention…" __He shakes his head, stare burning into the unremarkable wall. This kills him. He knows it kills the man across from him. The world is too ruthless. _"_I'm just one man. And I'm getting old. I can't protect her against what's coming."_

"_And you think I can?" _

_It isn't a biting remark. Not an incredulous rebuttal. It's simply a question. For a con man, his partner's father is usually surprisingly honest._

_Max's eyes find his, and a silent understanding passes between white knight and black king. It's so much more than an approval or request. _"_You're _more_ than one man, Agent Booth," Max says, voice low with developing magnitude. "I know what you're capable of, and I know you love my daughter. I know you love your son. And I _know_… things are going to get real ugly, real fast. Uglier than they already are."_

_There's no sense denying that. He feels it, too. That prickle at the back of his spine, that fleeting buzz in the pit of his stomach. Things are going to get much worse. The living hell hasn't even started yet. He almost caves in on himself at the mere thought of what's to come._

"_People will blame her," Max goes on. An edge to his voice. "They'll hate her. Your boss' boss' bosses will feel the growing fire under their feet, at their backs. They'll get scared, and make stupid decisions. And they'll call on you to find her. They'll bug your house, your phones, stakeout your driveway. They will do everything in their power to find her. Rally every means and tool necessary." _

_There's a silence, and it's grave. _

"_Be what you are to her. Be what you have to be for your country and your son. But _do not_… let those bastard scientists make my daughter pay for their mistakes." The older man's voice lowers, almost to a growl. "_Do not_ allow them to make an example of her." _

_All he can do is nod. He's had every intention of doing exactly what the man before him has issued. But a nagging fear still settles over his shoulders. "You don't think…" __He's terrified to even say it. To think it alone is preposterous._

"_I put nothing past a nation motivated by fear and self-preservation."_

"_Our government doesn't kill people." It comes without thought, an automatic response. He's said it before. To his partner, in fact. But why now this time does it seem flawed on his tongue? Deceitful, naïve?_

"_No, you're right. They just train people like you to do it for them." It isn't far off from what his daughter had replied with at the time. _

"_It won't come to that." This, he's certain of. It won't. _

_It _won't_. _

_They'll never go that far. That abysmal. __The government could be rocky at times, but his country–_his _country–that he fought and bled for, would never allow it. Never sink to such means of desperation._

_Max doesn't reply directly. He repeats himself, from years back. Splintered with emotion. _"_You take care of her." _

_It's an order. His failure will not be suffered lightly by his partner's father. __He swallows hard. Not because he's afraid of Max. Because he's afraid of failing _her_. _

"_I trust you, Booth. More than anyone outside my family. You're a patriot, but more importantly, you're a patriot for the people. Not some big mass of land." __The wording is different, but the conclusion is indistinguishable._

_Paladin._

"_I don't care how you have to protect her, by what means… just make sure no one else lays a hand on my little girl." __The shift is unmistakable. The underlying connotation is less manifest. But Booth reads it clear. They're both too good at reading people._

_Her father trusts him more than ever thought possible. _

* * *

The edifice of the once esteemed Hoover Building is a sad state of tragedy.

It's late, too late. _Too late_. The light is fading, with it–that obstinate courage. Watches warn them of the perilous time, trilling their utmost trepidation. Her skin crawls, bile threatening the back of her throat. Everything warns against this course of action, yet the vehicle trawls forward despite it.

It's the man he is. Though it would kill him to do so, he'd have ventured to the Hoover Building alone if she'd refused him. But she couldn't possibly do such a thing. Not only because the very thought of leaving him to fend alone against the suffocating unknown leaves her with a deep-seated ache, but because he's right.

Her heart pumps because of the danger, yes. But _someone_ had been on the delivering end of that radio communication. She's scared, eager. It's a confusing combination that she isn't sure how to cope with. She's shaking, and she wrings her hands to still them. He's out of the vehicle first, duffel secured over his shoulder, on the move. She's next, and they abandon the Mustang in the middle of the street.

"We'll meet on the second floor," he says, voice clipped and hurried. "I'll make a quick perimeter sweep. You search base level. You armed?" Adrenaline spiking but not yet flowing, she nods. She's covered by her ankle and hip holster. A semiautomatic weighs down her duffel. She knows there're several weapons stashed away in his, the largest being a PGS-10 short barrel shotgun.

The crickets chirp, late evening bird calls echoing across the empty city.

They split up. Divide and conquer.

* * *

With the elevators no longer in operation, the stairs provide a wrench to her progress. Inside the shell of the exterior structure, the FBI building is in sharp, vast devastation. Dust and cobwebs score the area in ruin. When not reminded of the nature of their visit, she can't help but feel for her partner and how this must be torturing him.

The space is eerily quiet, so she moves on, up the stairs, to the second level. Away from that dead silence. She tries to keep her respiration even, but any attempts to slow the quick palpitations of her heart are destined failures. Abandoned bullpens, empty and void, make the area out to be some ghostly memory. It's feels like only yesterday she was walking these floors, greeting Charlie and Marcus and others. She can almost hear the cacophony of voices, soft. Floating over the grounds, gathering around her.

The floor is dim, swallowed up in shadows and neglect. She hears his footsteps pounding up the stairs far to her left. "Nothing," Booth says, a little breathless, shaking his head as he hurries over to her. "They didn't come by car."

Her brow creases drastically. "How could they possibly venture so far without expeditious means of transportation?" she reasons, countering him with widened eyes.

"I don't know, Bones. Anything here?" His tone is short, but she knows it's not directed at her. He runs a hand through his hair, shoulders sagging. He looks at odds with himself, unwilling to stand still for long.

"No."

"Come on, then. We're running out of time. Stairwell's back this way." He's on the move again. She doesn't always enjoy when he's like this, but he's never failed her before. He knows what he's doing, so she yields to his expertise as she's always done. That nagging fear doesn't lessen, but it's irrelevant to his presence. She brushes it aside and focuses on his form and their surroundings.

* * *

"I don't like this," she confesses uneasily as they make their ascent.

"Me either." His own voice is a flat, twisted thing.

"You don't think they've gone?" There's a timid dismay behind the words, and now she's worried they'd been too late to receive them.

"No. I don't think so."

"What happens if they have? Are we going to wait until nightfall?" She can't stay the instant apprehension from her voice.

He feels the tingle creep along his spine, but shakes his head. "If we have to, we'll hole ourselves up in one of the interrogation rooms. Otherwise, weapons room is a couple floors away. Combo lock may have changed, but my powers of breaking and entering have not." She can't find the will to laugh at his cynical joke, but she's a little pacified when it appears he hadn't expected her to. His entire form exudes alert hostility. She envies his ability to sense danger before evidence could forecast it.

Sweeping the level thoroughly with even less to show for it, Brennan's about to speak on the matter when they both still in the middle of the room. "You hear that?" he asks quietly, ears perked, eyes drifting up along the ceiling. Some of his more advanced sensory capacities stem from the diluted remainder of the toxin that still taints his blood.

It's a moment of delay, but she nods, brow knitting in concentration. "Voices," she whispers, flushing in subdued excitement. Muffled, indistinguishable. But most definitely human. A creak in the floor above. Their eyes lock, wide and swimming with emotion and a thousand questions.

"Oh my God," he blurts, shock twisted around the words.

"Booth, there are people in this building." Her pulse quivers, grows, creating a pounding bass in her ears.

"Move," he urges, ushering her quickly back to the stairwell.

"There are _people_," she repeats as they enter the fourth floor, heart racing. She exhales incredulously, ranging somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. She's literally begun to bounce. Terrified, but swamped by amazed delight.

"I know, I _know_," he grates as they move quickly for the carrying sound, but he's grinning madly. "Just stay close."

She's heedless to his advisements, pace quickening, but brow creasing more and more when no bodies materialize to claim ownership of the voices. Is hope always such a vicious thing? Had they been imagining? Her thoughts and tentative speculations plough ahead, clinging to anything that holds.

"Stop," he says suddenly, arm snapping out to barricade her form. His deft ears fall on high alert, sifting through every minuscule detail. Cataloguing, analyzing. They're more alike that she's thought, it's just for different reasons.

"Where are they?" she questions, at a loss.

Decided, he moves. But doesn't stray far from her following form. "This way. Careful."

"What?" He's drawn his sidearm. She registers this in ill-contained distress. "Booth, what is it?"

"I don't like this." His head shakes a fraction, jaw set. Mirrors her earlier words. Mutters his aversion, a deep frown stubborn to his face. "Sounds weird…"

"Weird? What do you mean wei–" Her puzzled inquiry is cut short at the sight.

Inside the security room, each and every monitor glimmers animatedly with life. Replaying old security footage, old news coverage. _Film_... had provided the audio. Fabricated reality. But... they'd heard someone above them...?

Booth's grip tightens on his weapon, knuckles paling. Brennan experiences only bewilderment. Her brow creases, lips parting. She shakes her head, expert eyes scanning the room to where they eventually fall on the small black contrivance left in the center of the countertop. "Booth… that's my walkie." A ripple of unease goes through him when she looks at him, eyes flooded with uncertainty and confusion.

His jaw suddenly tightens, eyes darkening. "Wasn't it in your car when they trashed it on the bridge?" he asks, hoarse tone laced with trepidation. To her great and mounting concern.

"Well, yes. I left it when you…" Those eyes are suddenly moist with fear, horror reflected in their surface.

His grip tightens over her arm, his entire complexion paling. Her heart thuds against her chest as she follows his line of sight to see the alpha male Infected glowering back at them from the other side of the glass in the parallel observation room. "Oh, shit…" Booth whispers, and Brennan seizes his hand in alarm.

It's been waiting for them.

Gray eyes penetrating with a chilling calm, the thing had planned this. Features harsh and prominent in the low light. Its hulking form twitches, ready to initiate confrontation. Teeth bared in aggressive retribution. Her heart slams into her throat, pounding louder when she feels a change come over her partner. His posture becomes like steel alloy, and she can feel his pulse thundering against her palm.

"It's a one way mirror," he gasps, too late.

It's a reflection.

From behind them, the alpha male blindsides Booth, tearing him from her grasp. He never has a chance to dodge the attack as the thing leaps out from the darkness of the room's corner. Booth feels the impact though like a speeding truck. Brennan yells in alarm, and the intensity of the blow sends his gun sailing out of his hand to land somewhere behind the monitors.

The driving force of the collision propels them both into the metal storage units, the ruckus assaulting his ears. With a stunning roar, the thing that was once a man pins him to the floor, iron grip clamped over his shoulders with hideous strength. He does his best to hold it back, sees Brennan draw her sidearm out of the corner of his eye.

Shoving back against the rabid bulwark, he gains some ground. Before he can step aside to give Brennan a clean shot, it's at him again, bellowing. Tackling him into the wall, the sheetrock giving under the impact.

That's when he sees it. The name badge on the tattered military jacket. "Cortman," he breathes, eyes wide. Realization dawning. The Infected screeches, enraged and unreachable, when Brennan's boot connects solidly with its back. She holds some power of her own.

Distraction accomplished, Booth claims the small knife at his waist and drives it into the Infected's side. Howling, it releases him and stumbles against the wall, knocking over shelves and electrical equipment. Papers sail and flutter to life like makeshift confetti. "Go, _go_!" Booth orders her, and they scramble through the doorway.

He scoops up his duffel and they're running across the open floor, boots pounding against the carpet. Seconds later, they hear their oppressor giving chase. Booth racks his brain, digging up memories and recollections of structure routes and side offices. This hadn't been his floor, and so the familiarity is weak.

Weak, maybe. Absent, not.

Grabbing her hand, he careens them into an approaching hallway. The crashes behind them intensify, shafts of dwindling daylight doing little to impede the alpha male's dark determination.

Another hallway, and they're in a room she can't identify. Booth slams the door shut, locking it, dragging a file cabinet against it. Its complaint is loud in the small space, grating on her ears. "Are we safe in here?" she questions, breathless. Chest heaving.

"No," he says, brutal with the honesty. "It will buy us some time, though. We can get out through the East entrance to this room."

"What the hell are we going to do?" she demands, not at all enraged with him, but of the situation.

"I don't _know_!"

"Dammit, how the hell did he _know_? How could he possibly devise… that's _Cortman_?" Everything she's learned about these creatures, every minute behavior researched and categorized, has never led her to any conclusion to support this raging abnormality. Evidence to the contrary, however, her careful studies have failed her to massive proportions.

"It's him. I don't know how I didn't notice before." Now he's berating himself. At least some things never change, no matter how this personality quirk bothers her.

"Well, in complete fairness, his appearance has been immensely degenerated by the prolonged effects of KV."

"Yeah, thanks."

A colossal slam penetrates the room, the door cracking stridently under the pressure. Each of them don't bother to hide their reflexive flinch. "Maybe if we just get to an interrogation room, wait him out?" She provides tentatively, watching the door with increasing dread.

"No, he planned this. I don't know how, but he did. This place will be swarming with Infected in less than ten minutes. I know his mind, no matter how messed up it is now. It's what he'd do. _Bastard_."

For once, everything is quiet. A dark moment, raw with tense anxiety. And then… light.

"Booth?"

Facing away from her, he paces, running a hand stressfully through his hair. "I know it's not rational, Bones, but just, God, I don't know…"

"_Booth_." Her tone prevents the retort at his lips. She isn't facing him, isn't looking at him. Her attention is unwaveringly fastened onto the wall in front of her.

"What?" he asks hesitantly, inadvertently wincing at the repetitive slams against the resilient door that's quickly giving way. Outside, their old adversary throws himself at the slate of wood, pounding, roaring its contempt. Fingers digging into the surface.

"Get over here. Look at this." Her voice is urgent, an octave higher. Speech raced.

At the force of her words, he moves, taking a place at her side. It hits him with all the grace of a person walking into a wall. Dazzled by the sight, voice distant. "What is that…?"

She traces her hand over the bulletin, over the mass of stationery. The words are alive, speaking to them, showing them. A frustrated growl at the door. More pounding. "Dark Seekers…" she whispers. Pale fingertips touch the surface. Curious, awed. "They called them Dark Seekers."

Booth stays silent, brown eyes running over the scribbled predictions and untidy notes posted all across the board. Over the collage of desperation and seemingly ancient fear of a time long ruined of the ages. She's still in a world of her own, murmuring about how something must have accelerated the spread while they were absent from the city. How had they never come across this room before?

"There's a map," Brennan activates, suddenly enormously alert. Moving down along the wall, her hand splays against it, drawing potential. "Look."

The door is splintering. Torn, he transfers attention between it and his partner. Nerves on fire, they can't stay here. _Move_, they have to move. _Now_. "Bones…"

"Booth, _look_!" Whirling, eyes wide, her face takes on a new light. Her aim jams against the map, pointing. Showing. _Needing_ him to see. "Vermont… it's… Vermont is circled! Here, around Bethel!"

Immediately sensing her determination, he follows her direction, gaze falling on the area of the map circled boldly in red. "What's it mean?"

The pounding continues against the door, wood chipping, metal creaking. "Bethel is in the mountains," she explains, rationalizations spewing from her lips now in her excitement. "The virus–it can't… the temperature neutralizes the primary basis of infection in _Krippin's_ deterioration and alteration of the host's body. That's how I was able to counteract the core focus of the corruption's essential survival environment–"

"_Bones_. English!"

"The virus _can't_ _survive_ the cold!" Her hands are shaking, palms perspiring. She doesn't want to believe this, but something commands that she do it. "Booth, this could be a survivor's colony."

And suddenly he's going off that one hundred foot drop again. A sensation of fire and ice adopts his every sense. "You mean a safe zone? With people–_living people_?" He can't prevent the shock from his voice. That fear to hope is potent and nagging, but he desperately wants to accept it. To believe her.

"That's _exactly_ what I mean," she says seriously. "We weren't here when everything went to hell. People certainly may have gotten out. People like you and me. Even if susceptible to the virus, if they kept breathing masks on their person until reaching such asylum, they'd be safe."

Moment sinks in.

"That changes everything," he foreshadows, at long last.

"So what now?"

Slamming, screaming. The light is dwindling behind the horizon, only sinews of illumination making the room glow mutedly from the windows. "There's no way we get out of this. There's going to be too many." That bright exterior fades a little, knowing he's right. But then there's something new in his eyes that springs her fascinated curiosity. "We're blowing this place sky high." Now, comes the words he'd always used on her. In such desperate hour. He's not happy, but it's inevitable. His voice lowers with the gravity, eyes dark and thick in their depths. "Us or them, Bones."

Her stomach sinks, a cool weight settling on her shoulders. "How are we possibly going to do that?"

"You go through that door, take the East hall to the stairwell. There're oxygen tanks in the basement level for medical emergencies. Set them all off. I'll hold off Cortman to buy you time."

This is why she tends to hate his plans. She tries to ignore the context in his last sentence, switching to logic to ease her unsettlement. "What are we going to light them off with?"

"I'll find something. Just do it. I'll keep my old pal busy."

That pit in the bottom of her stomach is growing. That remembered pain of his possible absence from her life fresh and all too real. She sifts mentally through the facts. "You're stronger still, from the Infection," she says quietly. Assuring herself more than him. "KV isn't yet completely out of your system."

"I'll be okay," he says finally. It's not a question.

There's a hesitation, and she worries her bottom lip between her teeth. Eyes drinking him in, memorizing his every feature. "You'll be okay." Not quite an answer.

There's a moment. Mutual knowledge passed between them both. Each reading, each exposing. He's a little reluctant about it, but eventually speaks the early development of his tactic. The part he'd feared to voice. "Do you still have the virus with you?"

"Yes," she answers cautiously.

"What if… I had a little extra?"

Her head tilts a fraction, understanding his meaning and not liking it one bit. Stern in her delivery at the possible consequences his maverick tendencies could bring. "You mean like an adrenaline high? Because that's what it would give you at such a potent dosage."

"That's exactly what I mean."

"Booth, taking such a measured quantity would be near equivalent to taking an influenza solute absolutely pure into the bloodstream."

"What's that mean?" Ever oblivious to her squint-speak.

"Well… _this_ won't kill you," she eventually consents, retrieving the syringe from her small duffel. Holding it for his perusal. The only reason she relents to his scheme is that it might be the thing to save him.

"Works for me." Dropping his bag, he rolls up his sleeve. He always was the first to volunteer at school and when in the Rangers. The first to cannonball off the tallest cliff at the pit where he grew up.

"You're immune, so eventually it will wear off. You've been under its effects before, so you're accustomed to suppressing it. Control it," she says, watching him carefully, trusting his unconventional method, "and this may work. It won't be pleasant, though."

Eyes locking, understanding, he nods. Accepting of the cost if it means her escape. Voice tight, grim. "Juice me."

Taking a deep breath, pressing on past the regret budding within her, she presses the needle into his skin. Releases the virus into his vein, his bloodstream. He shudders under the influx, pinprick sensations shooting up his arm.

This has to happen, now. She's already wasting time.

Dousing an attempt to part, she falls back to him instinctively, fingers curling around the nape of his neck and tugging him down to her level. Their lips crash together in desperation, terrified of the outcome. Scared of the consequences their parting may contain. Every nerve ending alight and drumming with sensitivity, he feels each quiver of her face and body pressed against him with amplified awareness.

_Friends, lovers, survivors. __Partners. _

Pulling away, their foreheads press together. Tears spring into her eyes, but don't fall. She's more scared for him than for her. "It's all right," he assures her, voice low and faint.

"Try not to die." Her cold stare–all the more exposed and tearfully adoring–cuts him. She'll hold him accountable.

He laughs, and it's a weak sound. "You, too." Their hands slip apart, and she's gone. Running through the opposite door, trusting his plan. Trusting he'll survive. Needing to believe it, to feed off that faith she remembers.

Stooping down, he unzips his bag and retrieves the short barrel shotgun. Shakily, his fingers snap the shells into place. Already he can feel it. Growling deeply in his throat, he sinks against the wall beside the caving door. Back pressed tight against it. Quicksilver flushes throughout his bloodstream. Nerves ignite, muscles coil. Heartbeat slowly starts to escalate into a thundering pound.

Outside the room, Benjamin Cortman steps back, hunching low and emitting a demanding roar. Veins popping, neck tendons stretching, pulling. Gray eyes burning into the fragmenting door. Voicing hatred, screaming finality.

Inside, his other half tips his head back against the wall, gasping at the swelling rush of adrenaline building inside his body. Brown eyes snap to full dilation.

"Be right out, Benny," Booth says, pumping the shotgun.

* * *

**Best Highlander voice: THERE CAN ONLY BE _ONE_ ALPHA MALE!!!!**

**(my friend belted that out with glee after proofreading this baby, lol)**


	31. To Stand Against Our Darkest Deeds

****

******Author's Note: Apologies for the disgusting lack of update! I was out of town over the weekend. **

**********Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**************Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile!**

* * *

**CHAPTER THIRTY****  
**TO STAND AGAINST OUR DARKEST DEEDS

*

_Loneliness is our disease  
Where did we go wrong?  
Building up walls instead of bridges  
Let our lonely hearts collide  
We're made to live this life together  
Reach across this great divide  
Because standing side by side is better_

_All the pride we defend teaches us to pretend  
Like we can make it on our own  
But we were never made to walk alone  
Let the lines between us disappear_

-Together-

* * *

Gray eyes penetrate, burning and darkly vigilant. The wolf lies in wait.

Heart pounds loudly against broad ribcage, hammering, anticipating. There's something about the male day stalker. Something in its system that urges its extreme disdain of him. It shies back, engulfed in shadows. _This is the one who fights_, it remembers. Remembers only from recent encounters. It still knows nothing of its former life. Nothing except instinct. It knew how to trap, to plan. Its instinct was always to destroy, to unleash pain. Instinct is all that's left, all that remains of this shell. It's all that's needed.

Booth takes a breath, his own heart thudding dangerously fast, and kicks away the file cabinet, bursting through the door like the angel of death. The loaded shotgun ready to become his flaming sword. Pupils are wired into rushing focus, every surface of his skin alive and super-alert. But he remembers everything still. His mind isn't lost to ruin.

But the room is empty. Of enemy and shadow, alike.

Out of nowhere, he's suddenly cut down, thrown into the nearest obstruction. Teeth rattle at the solid impact, and he's fallen. Before he can gain any bearings, Cortman's blunt fingernails carve into his shoulders and drag him across the floor. He's slammed against random ailments, his oppressor shouting wordless obscenities. Booth steels his jaw, gripping the frayed jacket of his assailant. Delivers a solid kick to the thing's face.

Reeling back with a howl, Cortman is already on the attack again, driving his shoulder into Booth's midsection. Both alphas tumble into a neraby desk, which is quickly upturned, and the shotgun clatters away. Booth gains purchase, ducking a rabid swing and delivers two sharp blows to the face of the Infected man.

Cortman, barely affected, shakes it off and seizes his spry opponent, tossing him carelessly aside. Booth's back slides across a desktop, collides violently with a series of file cabinets, and eventually he topples to the floor in a bruised heap. Rattling metal echoes throughout the level, engulfing the atmosphere in an invisible thunderstorm.

Cortman throws his head back and bellows, long and deafening. Superior, conquering. Primal satisfaction. He is the greater beast.

Booth rises from behind the valley of destruction, retrieved shotgun in hand. Too bad for Cortman he's better at giving scars that receiving them. "Smile, asshole."

His own voice is something dangerous and not quite human. Two blasts propel the screaming monstrosity back with the force of a pissed off semi truck. The first tears at the flesh of its side, the second is partially obstructed when the thing throws up its arms in a kneejerk reaction.

With an agonized wail, it tears away. The third shot is intercepted by the wall when the Infected disappears from sight. Shaking with the force and speed of his thundering heart, Booth shakily ejects the third shell. He's got one left. He's too hopped up on the virus to feel the throbbing pain stemming from all the fresh bruises and injuries. He'll be well aware of them later, but right now, they're little more than an annoying buzz.

Without warning, he's ambushed from behind, weapon lost again and clattering down the stairs. In a speeding blur, he's thrown aside, crashing into an unfinished wall. Sent through weak framework—wood splintering, loud and snapping—and into the other room. Plaster dust and debris take hostage the air, clouds of it suffocating his lungs. Coughing, he collapses fully onto the pile of rubbage.

Wasting no time at all, Cortman smashes his way through, tearing aside planks and all manner of morsel in his way. He heaves Booth up by the throat, hoisting him right off his feet. The glass of the adjacent observatory spiderwebs under the impact of Booth's solid back. He doesn't notice the black dots corrupting his vision, but his attention becomes snagged, demanded, by something else entirely.

It's not the gray eyes of the monster glaring daggers into his face, but rather of what spills erratically and without sense from those pale, chapped lips. "_Buhhh_…" A deep guttural growl is all he hears at first, but then it's said again, with more force, with more deep disdain. "_Buuuoohhth_." Blood-stained teeth bite over the word as if it's a curse. As if the name is poison on the thing's tongue. It might be tragic, its attempt at speech, if the situation were not so abysmal.

Perhaps it remembers something. Had it been simply offhand dislike he'd once displayed of this prey in his grip? Or had it been instinct from the very beginning? Instinct to make this man suffer… without cause or reason? Just to see him burn?

Booth's eyes widen at the anomaly Brennan never foresaw. Steel bands of fingers dig deeper into his throat and jaw, curling around the outline like a vice with no release.

Cortman heaves a roar, forever undecided because of the state of his mind. A second later, they're crashing through glass and raining shards down like a shower of cutting stars. Flesh splits and tears under the assault, and the sound of the panel glass giving is like mountains colliding. It quickly becomes a battle of titans within a few short seconds.

Booth slides over the glass—the thick fragments biting into him, but not embedding—and rolls over his shoulder onto his feet. His teeth bare in feral retaliation as result of the drug in his system and provocation of attack. Sharp eyes drilling into his opponent with purpose. Something tears from his throat, voice twisted into something almost unrecognizable.

Bleeding, pained and enraged, Cortman growls with a vengeance. Rising like some self-proclaimed Grim Reaper. Intent on greater devastation.

Reinforcements are coming. This won't take long.

The titans collide.

* * *

Leg still tender and suffering her gait, Brennan hurries along the staircase with as much speed as achievable. Even through the concrete walls of the stairwell, she can hear the distant approaching wails. Closer, closing in by the second, and she's afraid.

She feels many emotions, too many to analyze thoroughly. Concern, for her partner's safety. Fear, for what lurks in the dark. Guilt, that they will have to kill these creatures. Anxiety, that perhaps this plan of his might kill them both.

She trusts him completely. But this can't end well. Even so–he is her compass. She can do nothing but follow.

She'd heard the thumps and bangs, shots ringing out, from the levels above her. Heard that ear-piercing shriek of the alpha male–Ben Cortman, her partner's former ally. If such a ludicrous word could be used to describe Cortman, whether applied to his former or present nature. If the physically brutal altercation last year had any relevance.

And then she sees dozen or so oxygen tanks in the corner of the room. There's little time to waste, so she doesn't dally a moment. She works the valves loose on each, pressurized gas hissing into the air.

A snapping clatter spears her attention and suddenly, even with the open valves, the room is suddenly too quiet. Colder. Swallowing the burgeoning lump in her throat, she tries to summon the courage she usually upholds at all times. Bravery is forging on even when you're at your most frightened state. She repeats this to herself, continuously. Desperately.

Drawing her sidearm, though wary of the possibility of creating a spark, she soldiers on into the unknown.

* * *

Cortman sails across the air, crashing into a corner of the wall and knocking the sheetrock loose. Before regaining balance, he collides with two shelving units and one kiosk. The milestones are quickly demolished. Booth had forced him down the staircase, and not while in an upright position. Capitalizing on the advantage gained, Booth had begun to dig around in his pocket for the lighter that was always there. Only to find it gone. Lost in the fight? Forgotten? No time to wonder. Inwardly letting loose with a desperate curse at the poor luck, he leapt down the stairs five at a time, knowing that his old friend wouldn't be out of the fight for long.

Reckless. Always so damn reckless.

He hardly even glimpses the airborne file cabinet before it's crashing into him and taking him down. There are stars, but the adrenaline poisoning his blood denies them access for any great length of time. He groans under the weight and shoves it end over end and away from himself. Bare footsteps shift into his view, and once again, he's seized. Under capture, he finally sees the old scar, a bite wound, on his pursuer's arm. Faded, but all the more glaring in its cruel execution.

So this was how Cortman became infected.

Shoving his comrade back into the many desktops littering the room, he springs back and kicks out. Boot connecting with a wooden support beam, it snaps and he takes two splinters up, like a sword in each hand.

He and Cortman circle. Light and dark of one powerful breed of man.

His old nemesis seems to be enjoying this too much–even in his broken state of mind.

A biting snap, a growl. Cortman moves first, and this time, Booth is there to meet him. Like a clash of thunder. He's gotten into so many fights with this man, more than he cares to tally. But he's certain–and for this, he feels a little remorse–that this time shall be the last. Regardless of the outcome.

_Crack! Slam! _The hulking post connects against the jaw of his opponent, the second meeting shoulder joint. Bones fracture, voicing their grief. Cortman howls, enraged further. Bares his stained teeth in a manifestation of carnage, screams. Each of them shout against the oppressive attacks leveled their way. _He'll kill Bones_, Booth reminds himself as they fight across the room. Brutal, both charged with electric adrenaline. Blood pumping, instincts alive and sharp. This is the outcome if he should fail.

_I don't care how you have to protect her, by what means… just make sure no one else lays a hand on my little girl. T_he voice of his partner's father rings in his ears.

Ducking a frenzied attack, he dives forward, rolling over his shoulder, abandoning the double beams in his hands. Seizes a grip on what his hand was always meant for. Like a rising force, he unfolds, smooth and sure.

"I'm sorry," he says, and he is.

The barrel levels at Cortman's challenging visage, and he pulls the trigger.

* * *

It's Them.

Just as she's feared.

Pulse quickening, Brennan digs the sidearm out of her duffle and assigns it ahead of her. Pace cautious, nerves on fire. She fears to breathe–to make any fathomable sound. She doesn't dare fire, even if she must. Any spark this close to the basement could set off the tanks prematurely, endangering herself _and_ Booth. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she regains some of her bearings. Focuses on the calm as he'd taught her.

That god-awful wailing–she loathes it all over again. Drawing near, assaulting her ears, burrowing into the core of her chest without forethought. These demons, these hidden skeletons of her innermost dark half she's been running from for more than a year's time. She knows she must face them now.

A racing shadow to her left, and she's on the move again. Darting through a dim hallway, knuckles firm and white around her saving grace. Their cries come louder. Tearing around a corner, she feels a steel grip clamp onto her arm without warning. And suddenly she's screaming, but those eyes cut off the strangled cry before it can fully manifest.

"Come on," he says, beaten. Haggard. There's blood on his face and regret in his eyes.

Cortman's dead. But Booth is alive. This is all that matters. He's here now, always, and he's going to help her face what she's been suffering to avoid. This is a defining moment for them both. Shining, echoing.

Everything has led to this. A defiant stand, against those who would see them fail. These creatures that have been craving their blood, their destruction, for so long. Always from afar, always lurking where the sunlight didn't dare journey. They'd existed in a forbidden graveyard of her greatest disappointments.

Oh, but they're coming now.

"Do you have a match?" she asks–anything to break the sound of approaching judgment.

"Something better," he replies, digging a Tasmanian Devil lighter out of his pocket. Agent Tucker's desk drawer hadn't failed him.

She doesn't question his method, but she does question her abilities as he loads his firearm with more shells, snapping the barrel closed with stunning finality. He's still shaking, fingers still quivering around the stock of his weapon, from the adrenaline high. He can't stand still, shifts from foot to foot impatiently. Waiting, knowing what's coming.

Her duffle drops from her grip, thudding against the carpeted floor. Crouching low, she digs a second syringe–she has several–from the confines. Loads it, poises it over her arm. _Partners_, her eyes tell him. Gazing up at him with purpose. _Partners_, his answer back. Words aren't needed.

It's them.

The floor is vibrating, just noticeable, with the force of the small army charging up the stairs from ground level.

The virus shoots into her system, like a rush of liquid fire. Rising, she joins him, armed. Poisoned by the dark power she's created. Equals. Her heart hammers, his too, in perfect sync. Afraid and ready, her hand finds his. Seeks him amongst the reigning turmoil. His fingers respond, curling around hers. Grip tight, sharing strength.

Her pulse is rebelling dangerously, speeding up, pounding harder. Her eyes flutter shut as every nerve sparks. His voice finds her, somewhere within the din. "Embrace the silence," he whispers.

And she does.

Everything else dies away from her consciousness but his voice. Together, they'll do this.

The pressure builds inside her. Like lava in a volcano, about to burst. Unleash havoc. Devastation. Like a fever dream, everything is tangled, separate. But it's united a second later, in perfect symmetry. She becomes as he is.

All at once then, the world floods back, and she's hyper-aware. Siren eyes snap open, tainted like his. Contaminated by the faint gray halo–even more discernable by the force of dilation her pupils take on. Each of their hold tightens around the hand of the other. And she's alive.

Sharing in this drug, this battle, war, fight–_with_ him. Suddenly, it's as if a single thread severs, and everything falls apart. The Infected swarm the room, howling, screeching, demanding affliction. The damage to her leg is forgotten, and she's moving like a swift, newborn force. She hasn't known speed, agility. Nothing like this. The power is intoxicating, but unlike a disreputable few, she knows how to ration it. Use it, without becoming enamored.

Booth is no smith, but he knows what it is to be forged. From _that_ _guy_ to soldier, from loser with an addiction to selfless protector. From atoning soul to redeemed human being. But always her partner. He's been broken so many times and every time he's reassembled there are pieces missing. He'd always been so crippled by the fear and realization of what he could never have. But she loves him, still. Unfailing. It's redemption, in many forms.

This is his moment, too.

Time to face the music.

"Cover your six!" she shouts to him, cautioning. And he's proud of her. All the training he's put her through makes her shine like nothing he's ever seen. Learning curve ever steep, as always.

Three to his left as he whirls, and he levels his sights to fierce precision. The shotgun's weight in his hands is familiar and comforting. Guns have always been his method, his chosen ability. Really, it's a talent that chose him. "I love playing shooting gallery," he comments humorlessly. Unleashing the full power of the short-barrel weapon. Just like the figurative clay pigeons, the three offenders break under the power of the weapon, cancelled from the fight. Brennan incapacitates two, another with a flurry of snapping blows.

Everything feels delayed. The fierce adrenaline coursing through their systems brings about an unnatural phenomenon. Sound is deeper, slower. A subtle shift. The not-so-subtle portion consists of their raging heartbeats. Pounding, thundering. Reflexes are quadrupled. It's similar for the Infected, but they don't have the luxury of higher brain function. Rational thought.

Cortman proved They could plan, but not make immediate decisions. Emotional and social response is damaged. This gives the partners the advantage, no matter how outnumbered.

Seizing her arm, Booth heaves her out of the way of a charging male. It crashes into a small congregation of file cabinets. Despite the slowed audio the adrenaline rush provides, everything is painfully loud. Booth's temples throb. Brennan's ears ring. Gunshots are like sonic booms, the screams of the Infected like soaring fighter jets.

It's becoming dicey to use their weapons. With every blast of the shotgun, shells slamming against metal and Infected alike, minute sparks dance like swarms of fireflies. "Make your way to the South window!" he shouts, catching the chin of his current opposition with the stock of his gun.

She doesn't respond, doesn't need to, but obeys. Employing his training, her instincts, she battles across the floor. Her weapon clicks empty, but she doesn't deter or stall to reload. Pale fists find her targets like heat-seeking missiles, fast and deadly. Her weapon drops and she's taking up the nearest office chair, swinging it effortlessly into the clear pane. Glass shatters out into the night, raining down onto the street below. The moon greets her, pale as she. The stars whisper promises, winking absolution.

They're about two stories from ground level. She seizes one of the heavy sheets dangling forlornly over many of the bulletins in the bullpen. "Booth!" she cries, not sure how long she can hold some of the straggling Infected back from the window and her.

Sensing her exigency and the moment of opportunity, he files his weapon away, the last shell put to use. Digging the lighter back out of his pocket, he clutches at one of the fallen file cabinets, tilting it upright. Locks break away under the abuse of the pistol now decorating his hand. Jerking open the drawers, he sets light to the manila folders, all the documents inside. Ears pricking at the approach, he whirls and fires two shots point blank into the screaming visage of the attacking male.

He hears her call for him again. _Now, now, now–it has to be _now. Cringing inwardly at the repercussions this will hold against his back if they survive, he heaves the smoldering file cabinet into his arms. Hauls it across the room, tosses it crashing down the stairs like a child's toy.

It clatters to a stop on one of the landings far below. Flames flickering, danger lurking.

_Move_.

And he's running for her. Infected at his heels, snapping. Howling. Their haunted cries consuming his every awareness except his sight. All he sees is her, palm outstretched, eyes tainted like his, wide and urgent. And just like before, everything is warped, slowed. Sound dulls until the only thing he hears is his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Everything comes rushing back when their hands join and together, they're plummeting out the window. The sheet provides a crude parachute, delaying their speed of descent just enough. A second later, they're collision atop the roof of a small station wagon is imminent. The frame caves under the weight, glass exploding outward. Teeth rattle at the impact, bodies jarred.

They don't necessarily feel it now, but later the pain will come. There's no time to worry over it now. "Come on," he urges, wincing at the movement. The drug is weakening in his system already. Vision's become a little foggy.

Above, the Infected wail their vindictive rage. Some of them dare to scale the building, crawling through broken glass. Ignoring the way it bites into their flesh. She gasps at the small nerve attack that shoots up her leg. But allows him to pull her from the wreckage, arms locked around his neck.

They're on the move for the Mustang, loping strides a little awkward with the fresh waves of pain appearing through the patches of remaining adrenaline. "How many oxygen tanks were there?" he pants, expelling extra energy to make sure she's in pace with him.

"About a dozen," she says, tone grave.

Her answer bulldozes into him like a ton of bricks. "Holy shit, we've gotta move." Nodding furiously at him, they pour on the speed.

Car doors slam, ignition roars to life, and tires squeal frenziedly into the fresh night. Some of the Infected have reached ground level, dashing off in limited pursuit of the rapidly shrinking vehicle.

Gas pedal to the floor, speedometer increasing dangerously, the first wave of explosions behind them hits. The concussion from the blast rocks the sports car even from a block away. She stifles her reaction to scream, fingers curling around his arm. Her other hand finds the safety handle. Small pieces of rubble rain down around them, striking the road.

_Boy, that stuff's really unstable. _He braces against the torrent of manipulation, steadying the car's path. Knuckles pale, constrict tightly around the wheel. "Hold on," he whispers, foot never easing off the gas.

His eyes shift, and she catches it. Grips his hand tighter. "Don't look," she tells him, voice heavily weighted down, thick with empathy.

Behind them, his own harbor is being destroyed. Glass and bricks detonate, burst outward in a startling dispersal rate. Smoke and rolling flames consume the edifice, floors crumble in on each other. Retreating Infected are pummeled with debris, blown from their feet with the force of the blast. To say nothing of the ones still trapped inside.

And all malevolent intent is extinguished.

But the rearview mirror is giving him a painfully perfect THX version. It's loud, so loud. So damaging. Something inside him cracks, but he can't look away. He navigates with his peripheral.

He shudders violently, and she's certain it doesn't have anything to do with the slowly flagging adrenaline that still courses through them. Though her grip on his hand tightens further, softness is conveyed. Shared regret. _I'm sorry_, her touch tells him.

Glancing at her, his eyes read the same. Reflect her silent words back at her. Yes, the Infected wished them harm, plotted–however brokenly–to arrange their demise. But They were just like them. Had been people, once. It wasn't Their fault what happened to Them.

The annihilation of the Hoover Building backdrops their grief. But in the greater outlook, it's less. "We're safe," he says. _This_ is what matters.

_You're safe_, he silently adds.

This is who they are. Social creatures, as ever and always, do irrational things, move mountains, betray, blow up government buildings, _sacrifice_, for those they love.

* * *

_And if it all falls apart, I will know deep in my heart  
The only dream that mattered had come true  
In this life, I was loved by you.  
_  
-Colin Raye-


	32. The Struggle Thought in Vain

**********Author's Note: Last chapter!!!! Not including the epilogue and such, of course... **

**********************Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**************************Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile!**

* * *

**CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE  
**THE STRUGGLE THOUGHT IN VAIN

*

_This is my life, it's not what it was before  
All these feelings I've shared  
These are my dreams that I'd never lived before  
Now that we're here, it's so far away  
These are my words that I've never said before  
And this is the smile that I've never shown before_

_All the struggle we thought was in vain  
All the mistakes one life contained  
They finally start to go away  
I feel like I can face the day  
I can forgive and I'm not ashamed  
To be the person I am today_

-Staind-

* * *

_**August 29**__**th**__**, 2010  
**_

Foliage shows fragile evidence of approaching autumn, crisp and golden . Leaves quiver in the breeze and the everything seems so much clearer. Only the sounds of the Tahoe fill the void.

The air between them cradles an easy quiet. His hand feels vacant without hers and so he seeks out her skin over the console. She's gently asleep against the window, but her fingers subconsciously link around his. Her turn has come and gone to drive, but he doesn't dream of waking her. She looks peaceful, perfect. Lips quirking a little into a fleeting smile, he raises their joined hands and presses a kiss onto her knuckles. She sighs in her sleep.

He's tired, too. But he can hold out a little longer. The black ribbon of road stretches hypnotically ahead, beckoning. Conveying mysterious promise.

* * *

_**August 27**__**th**__**, 2010**_

_Discomfort is flagrant. Too real to be a dream. Blessed oblivion still tempts her, but she battles quietly against its pull. Dragging her eyes open, all she sees is darkness. Testing her motor function proves futile. A shift of the arm there, a roll of the neck here, is all she can really accomplish. It's soft, though, wherever she is. _

_Briefly, she loses the fight against a rapid succession of yawns. Blinking drowsily into the hooded space, she finally feels the weight settled over her waist. "Booth?" she ventures quietly, voice too weak to achieve anything greater. She hears his mumbled response beside her, feels him shift. His loose hold around her tightens almost imperceptibly, and he buries his nose further into her hair atop the pillow. _

_She feels utterly inept, and wagers he feels the same. Her memory sparks to life, however weakly, recalling the night previous and the battle with the Infected. Without any doubt, the adrenaline highs have worn off. Now arrives the repercussions of their abused bodies, blissfully forgotten prior to this morning. She'd noticed last night that he'd seemed to be favoring his upper body movements, and quickly recognized the burgeoning signs of injured ribs. Worrying at first that some of the cartilage could be damaged near his sternum, he'd assured her nothing felt too horrible just yet. He'd have probably started to feel that before any other injuries, so she'd deemed it safe to say it was nothing so serious. She'd thought she might be suffering too, though, from bruised damage beneath her flesh. Still, it had been too late and she'd been too fatigued to decide anything definitive. So before they'd crashed last night, she'd wrapped his ribcage and loaded them each with enough morphine to knock out a race horse._

_He hasn't even risen to open the steel shutters, the barricades, and she doesn't blame him. She can feel the slow expanding of his torso, and the pattern becomes her private lullaby. _

_Her eyelids droop again without warning, and she doesn't fight the process. Lazily, she snuggles back against him, his warm chest cushioning her shoulders through the thin fabric of their clothing. Always so warm. _"_Oven man…" _

_She feels the chuckle rumble through him, deep in his throat, at her sluggish conclusion. She can never say _'teddy bear'_ like a normal person. She's only half-aware, drifting fast. _"_It's morning," he replies tiredly to her somewhat rhetorical assertion, voice thick with sleep. He feels a twinge in his ribs, but nothing manifest enough to disturb his rapidly vanishing consciousness._

"_Mmm… no. G'back t'sleep." Her sigh is made of angels' music and mountain springs. _

_Morphine really is a pleasant thing. _"…_kay." Sighing contentedly, her shampoo becomes his aroma therapy. He's lost before he can identify the smell. _

* * *

_It takes another day before they're able to resemble anything similar to functioning human masses. Or to move at any respectable pace. _

_She winces against the ambush of pestering sunlight, burrowing further into the blankets with an audible whine. She doesn't bother to recall that Temperance Brennan does not whine. She hears his laughter and feels the mattress sink under his weight when he begins to crawl up to her, though she suspects it's due to his limited motor functions and not that he's being playful. She should have suspected his restlessness would emerge first. _

"_Bones," he intones softly, poking at her through the duvet. This earns him a disgruntled huff. Always happy to antagonize, a grin splits his face. "Rise and shine, beautiful lady." _

_Her tolerant laughter bubbles from under the herd of blankets, voice muffled. "Should I be expecting an onslaught of new and irritable monikers from now on?" Did that horrid voice really come out of her? A glass of water will certainly do her good._

_His lips find her temple beneath the mass of cotton and down. He doesn't seem to mind her morning voice at all, rather he appears encouraged by it. "Mm, maybe." _

_Eyes closed, a smile still blossoms across her face. "Funny man. Just don't be acquainting me with Attila or an infant, and we'll be fine." _

_He chuckles, hovering over her attentively._ _To her petulant surprise, he laughs and kisses her with summoned delight, rubbing his nose against hers. She isn't irked anymore. "Sugar Pie, Muffin Cake, Pumpkin, Schmoopie Bear..." _

_Bursting into spirited laughter, she navigates from the confines of cozy blankets, peering up at him. She notices the way his eyes soften unhappily at the faint evidence of bruising from the other night blooming over her pale features. He might notice the way her lips dip into a frown at the damage he's sustained, too. _

_He traces his thumb gently over the purpling flesh, face falling dejectedly. Her fingers find the foremost abrasion over his brow, smoothing the worry lines away. "It must look worse than it is, because it doesn't hurt." _

_Her assurance pacifies him a little, and he nods. "Feel like getting up today?" _

"_I'm up for it, yes. Being ambulatory can only accelerate the healing process." _

"_How's your leg?" _

"_Much better, thank you." _

_His lips find hers again, slow and chaste. It kills him to see her so vulnerable. Her fingers delve up into his hair, and she's reminded of its length. He chuckles against her lips, pulling away to look at her. "Think I could use a haircut again. What do you think?" Looking optimistic, a half-smile on his lips, his dark eyes fix on her hopefully._

_Grabbing a fistful and tugging playfully, she grins. He ruffles her own head of curls in response, and when her sudden giggles finally dissolve back into her husky laughter, she nods accordingly. "Scissors are in the third drawer in the kitchen from the refrigerator. If you want to get them I'll indulge your dapper sensibilities." _

"_Yes, my beloved." A quick peck to her nose and he's bounding from the bed, groaning as the ramifications of such nimble movement contradict with the soreness of his still tender physique. _

_She hums her chastising amusement of his costly neglect and, after making a face at her, he disappears from the doorway. Investigating fully later, they discover rather benign but notable injuries. Two of his ribs seem to be cracked, though not too seriously. Several small bones in his hands are broken, same as her. Their bruising and injuries become like puzzle pieces that only they know the sequence of. _

* * *

_Her fingers smooth through the dark confines above his scalp, careful and meticulous. Perusing the result, manually checking for consistency from each angle. Fingernails trace the sides, measuring. _

"_How's it look, Doc?" _

_Chewing on her bottom lip, she tilts her head. Blue eyes focused with precise scrutiny. "Tip your head forward," she requests softly, consumed by the task. Always the perfectionist, he never has to worry about crooked angles anymore. _

_He obeys, shifting a bit in the kitchen chair he resides in. She hovers behind him, running the pads of her fingers along the nape of his neck. An inch or so of rebellious locks dust the floor, and she purses her lips in approval at her handiwork. The comfortable quiet drags on until it isn't noticed anymore._

"_Cortman knew my name," he says quietly, eventually. He sits a little stiffer in his seat, she notices. _

_Her brow furrows delicately together, fingers stilling in his hair. "What?" _

_He doesn't say anything for a long time, and for a moment, she thinks he won't go on. He doesn't disappoint, though. Never does. He clears his throat, one broad shoulder lifting in a tired shrug. "He couldn't talk very well. Barely at all. But I'm positive he said it."_

_She hesitates to reply, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. She knows he walks a line—somewhere between regret and ready acceptance of assuming the duty of ensuring Cortman's necessary demise. He hasn't had to kill anyone in so long. "I… I have a theory," she begins tentatively. He waits patiently, devotedly. "I can't be certain of course," she almost immediately debunks._

_The room falls quieter still, but it's Booth who breaks the silence first. "Tell me," he murmurs, gaze set calmly against the floor._

_She takes a breath, sacrificing—if only for a moment—her own past convictions. "Ten percent of the human genome is still unmapped," she explains, tracing her fingers along the seams of his t-shirt over his shoulders. "Some… some have said that it's the genetic design for…"_

"…_The soul," he finishes softly, and it isn't quite a question. He'd been tentative at first to raise the supposition with her, but when he feels her smooth the wrinkles out of his t-shirt with gentle hands, he eases a little._

"_Instinct." She nods. It's not a correction, but an agreement. This is easy, she can do this now. She should have known such conversation could always be shared with him—on how she's doubted herself. Doubted everything she once believed in. "I was never… I was only able to study the outer effects of KV on the human body, on the subjects. I could never analyze their thoughts, or what they were ultimately motivated toward." She sighs. "I knew part of it was hunger, the need to feed. But I never knew all of it." _

_There's a beat of silence again, but he doesn't break it this time. He gives her what she needs—whatever time she requires. This will be one of the biggest events of her life, perhaps even more so than the trial of last night. This will define who she is, who she's becoming._

"_I believe that the Infection retained instinct in every specimen, whatever that instinct might have been. The _soul_…" she chooses his word with hesitance, but unshakable faith, "the person they were before… it always remained, on some level, I think. It had to, from what I can see now. Whoever the person the subject had been before… it would become almost decupled. Be forced to the surface to stunning degree. The greedy wouldn't be allowed to hunt; they'd steal food for themselves. The timid would watch over the hive when the need arose. The daring and more intelligent became the hunters. Do you see?" _

"_I'm following you."_

"_Cortman was…" she shakes her head, unwilling to deface a name she has no right to. "He was…"_

_Booth releases a lax and humorless laugh, leaning back further in his seat. "His instinct was to be a jackass?" _

"_Yes, I'm afraid," she concurs with a slight grimace. "In the vernacular, I suppose. More specifically, there are certain genetic markers for possible psychotic and violent behavior in all of us, some more pronounced than others. It's just that in most human beings, they're dormant. In others... well, you knew him better than I did."_

"_But what about the others? Not all of them could have been monsters, right?" His voice is uncharacteristically timid, small. She can tell he's averse to accept such a judgment on them all. This man who believes every person retains a morsel of good. A sense of right and wrong, no matter how fleeting. _

_She's relieved she can pacify him, but not for the reasons she might have hoped. Nothing really ever is a fairy tale. "Do you… do you remember when we would find the corpses? Remains of the Infected that had been torn into?" She allows the question to hang, to linger on the air, before continuing. "What if… what if they weren't the weak ones being singled out when food got scarce?" _

_She can sense the comprehension in his frame before he even speaks. "They were rebels." There's an almost indiscernible fracture to his voice. _

"_I believe so," she speculates sadly. _

"_So… you're saying that all the good people got singled out and massacred? Because they wouldn't follow the others? The leader?" _

_She can hear the note of pain in his voice, and feels a twinge in her chest in response. "Not all of them. But the better ones, I think. Others… Cortman may have been a tyrant, but he was the Alpha," she supplies logically, no matter how unhappy with the conclusion. "He provided them with food, shelter. Helped them survive. He controlled the pack, as well. They could have been afraid. Not to mention… technically, to them—even though _impossible_ for them to rationalize—we're still enemies of the state. The country. That had been wired into their minds long before falling victim to the disease. Long before their brains essentially collapsed." _

"_So… instinct again," Booth nods._

"_Yes."_

"_But why Cortman?" _

"_He was strong," she shrugs. "Had knowledge, at least more so than most. He knew how to survive; how to keep people alive, if he cared to. I'm not saying he wasn't challenged at times—he must have been. Either he won every pitted match, or loyal pack members dealt with the oppressors he faced." _

"_Hmm." He makes that quiet, distracted noise again in the back of his throat, and she knows he's deep in thought._

"_I always had only assumed humanity and integrity were lost post-infection. And to a degree, they were, of course. I mean, you saw how they moved, how they behaved. Races do evolve, I should never have jumped to such conclusions…" _

_She's disappointed in herself, has been for so long. Especially ever since learning of this anomalous shift. The need to assure her is strident, pulsing in his ears and already alive on his tongue, but there's something else. Something he can't be rid of just yet. _"_So… whatever the personality… the foremost belief? That person's intentions and instincts were strengthened the most?" _

_She knows what he's talking about, even if by some chance he doesn't yet. A warmth blossoms in her chest in place of the ache, and she smoothes a hand over his hair. "You're a protector, Booth. I believe if allowed to develop, you would have been…" she can't complete the thought, too consumed by awe._

"_I was a challenge to Cortman? On the bridge?" he asks. It's not exactly a question, be she catalogs it as one._

"_Yes. And I don't think the pack had ever seen anything quite like you before. At least not so recently. What you represented, what you faced them with. Not to mention…"_

"_What?" he prods eventually when she doesn't elaborate. _

"_Seeley," she begins, and he knows the power, the significant importance behind her words now at the mention of his first name. He can count on one hand the times she's ever called him by it. "You tossed their pack leader—their _alpha_—through a billboard. Across the _street_. You were…" she simply can't stay the reverent admiration from her voice, "incredibly powerful. I think because of the drive behind your intent."_

_He knows now where this conversation has been leading. And he nods with acceptance, with relief. "Protecting you." _

"_Paladin," she smiles eventually. Fondly, proudly._

_He nods again, lips parting to speak, but it's almost a full minute before anything braves to follow. "So I…" his throat catches, closes over the words. It's a struggle to force them out. "I never would have hurt you?" _

_He fears her reply. Doesn't dare hope. _

_The smile on her face fades, but doesn't disappear. "I imagine if you got hungry enough… your control may have slipped. Especially so soon into the Infection. As it did for others, I assume. But…" she shakes her head, tentative, but confident, "no. I don't… I don't think so." _

_There's a brand new silence as this sinks in. So very different from any moment of stillness that might have come before. He's immobile under her touch, and she's afraid she's said the wrong thing. _

"_Anyway, it doesn't matter now," she brushes off. "You're fine again. You're Booth again." Her hold unconsciously tightens over his shoulders, blue eyes flitting self-consciously about. "You're not my guard dog," she murmurs quietly at long last. "I never wanted you to be." Her fingers wander upward, trailing through his dark hair uncertainly. She feels his head bow under her hands, and with a slight start, she welcomes the sudden realization. "It makes a difference though, doesn't it?" she questions softly. "To you?" _

_He inhales deeply, catching her hand at his temple and drawing it down to press a kiss into her palm. A watery smile forming against her skin. _

_It does. It makes all the difference._

_She gazes down at him, even though he isn't looking at her. She remembers finally why they've assumed this position and almost laughs at how they've become so distracted. Unprompted, she drops a kiss to the top of his head. Pleased with herself again. "Nice as new."_

_Smiling wider, he doesn't correct her. Angling his head back, he peers up at her happily. Expression soft, contemplative. She drapes her arms over his shoulders, hands dangling in front of his chest, and they share a look. _

"_I heard you praying before," he says quietly, at last. This is the other fraction of meaning he's hoped to address with her. Has hoped she'd indulge with him over it, over whatever effect it's had on her._

_Her eyes take on a curious sort of beauty, and he's enchanted. "I think…" she trails off uncertainly, after giving her words careful thought, gaze falling away from his as a pink hue dusts her cheeks. "I _believe_… that maybe we aren't alone. That maybe all along, we've had someone looking out for us." Finally, her eyes find his again, and he's shocked to see the tears brimming at their corners. "Thank you for showing me that faith. Thank you for not giving up on me." __Her voice cracks under the weight of her sincerity, and the emotion she conveys to him is startling. He almost has to break the eye contact that's become so intense he feels like he's drowning. _

"_You're welcome," he says softly, the gravity packed into those two words like something alive. _

_Their connection holds, each unwilling to look away. _

"_What are we going to do?" she asks finally, always and ever seeking him for answers. _

_He hesitates after rising from his seat, knowing exactly what she means. They can always return here, but the tangible, almost physical blow it would deal to fail, to be met with miles of nothing, would be unbearable. But the cost of denying the will to act? __To try is to risk failure, but risk must be taken because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing. _

_So he tells her. _

"_We listen." _

_And there it is. Four hundred miles will decide their fate. _

"_We listen," she echoes. A pact, a promise. A hope. _

_This is faith. This is what she's been craving. To share this with him, and it's real and it's beautiful. God, is it perfect. _

_She momentarily forgets how to breathe when her partner gently claims her lips with his, conveying comfort and reassurance. The heat of his mouth sends a fluttering of warmth spiraling through her body, and she's near to tears. Scared–_terrified_–of taking this chance. Of daring to leave their haven. Chance moving forward. _

_But he's here, showing her and promising her that everything will happen the way it's meant to. She melts into his embrace when his arms circle her and she's suddenly acutely and painfully aware of troubles they'll surely face down the line. _

"_Couples… they fight," she says thoughtfully when his lips stray and seek her face, the column of her throat. The stubble on his jaw tickles her sensitive skin. "Correct?"_

"_Mmhmm." _

_When her investigative hands run up his sides, he murmurs a quiet protest at the negative effects her movements hold on his ribs. "Sorry," she whispers, but can't stay her magnetized equilibrium as she drifts a step nearer, the need to be as close to him as possible flagrant. "Do you think we will?" Her brow is creased in concentration. A worried frown to her lips. She's never been good at these things. She simply can't ruin this connection with him, this bond. It's unacceptable, and so she'll endeavor like never before. _

_He smiles though against her neck, voice soft. "We always fight." _

"_No, I don't mean like that. I mean…" she certainly isn't trying to dissuade him from his ministrations, but she needs to be informed. "When we say hurtful things to each other." Her throat closes up at the words, fresh tears welling at the very idea. _

_He's stilled completely at the fracture in her voice. Slowly, he draws away to look at her, brown eyes warm, expression gentle with understanding. "Oh." _

_She ducks her head slightly, peeks at him from under thick lashes–almost as if she's too shy to look at him directly. Embarrassed by her inquiry. "Do you think we will?" _

_His expression alleviates further, softening the blow. He knows she wants the truth, and he's never given her anything else. "I think it's inevitable. I think, eventually, we will." He brings one hand up to her chin and she smiles sadly in response. _

"_Alright. Well… the things I might say? When we do?" His own two personal stars shine up at him, honest, repentant of the unavoidable future. Her voice lowers to a whisper, small, barely enough to break the silence. "I don't mean them." _

_Without apt warning, he feels his own eyes start to burn. He chokes a little on the words, but ultimately gets them through. "Me either." _

_Unable to remain separate a moment longer, they meet again. She whimpers softly when he tangles his fingers through her hair, strengthening the connection between them. Her stomach coils, and she's truly thankful. Happy. _

_The buildup of emotional trauma and chosen promise of the past week compels her to part her lips and demand a far more intimate union. _

* * *

_**August 29**__**th**__**, 2010  
Bethel, Vermont  
**_

She stirs quietly in her sleep, and he's smiling again. If she ever found out about his staring problem when she's asleep, he'd probably get punched in the stomach. He chuckles at the idea, unafraid.

It's a good thing there's no traffic, because he can't see a damn thing behind them. The Tahoe is stocked to the roof, gasoline tubs strapped atop. Sadly, there had been no room for Fred, much to his partner's ill-contained relief. They'd bid their final farewell to all their plastic acquaintances, trying to lighten the atmosphere for when the need to leave their home became unavoidable.

She'd cried, and so had he.

It's better now, though. Easier to breathe. A quiet sort of optimism blankets the air around them, cocooning. Bob the Caveman and Jasper the Pig watch over them devotedly from the dashboard, and Brainy Smurf resides in the cup holder, unable to stand properly on his own in the moving vehicle. He doesn't know what they'll find, but as long as she's with him, everything's easier. He can handle any disappointment that…

He blinks.

His focus drags from her sleeping form to fasten stanchly onto the sight ahead. Brow creases, lips slowly parting. Muscles become reinforced, back rigid. The leather wheel casing whines under the force of his grip.

The Tahoe slows to a stop.

"Temperance, wake up."

She mumbles incoherently, loathe to welcome the sun with her eyes, but eventually does. Stretching as well as she can in her seat, she sits up a little straighter. Looks to him. "What is it?"

His voice catches, so he surrenders to the sight ahead. Staring, perplexedly agape. She follows his path of attention and it isn't long before her expression is mirroring his. They each count to ten, waiting for the construct of their imaginations to disappear.

Slowly, carefully, they each climb out of the inactive vehicle. Her breath snares in her throat, and they're side by side, moving together. Cautious, dazed at what their eyes perceive. Instinctively, she seeks his hand. She can feel his pulse thudding beneath her palm. He feels hers.

They approach, as one.

His eyes travel up, taking in the entirety of the divider. The large steel doors, and the concrete walls stretching on for what seems like forever on either side.

Seconds turn into decades. Skepticism slowly evolves into hesitant expectation.

When they're within range, tiny light indicators begin to flash at eye level, a soft hum trilling in time with the blinks. Impulsively, he's shying a step ahead of her, guarding, on the alert. Her stomach flips, and she's become suddenly lightheaded. The blinking stops. Metal alloy groans, locking mechanisms disengaging. At once, the two heaving doors begin to tilt inward, slowly parting. Opening, _revealing_.

_Soldiers_ on either side. Two soldiers. Not one _person_, but also a _second_. Pathways, buildings. Homes. People.

_People, people, people... there are _people_._

Brennan feels herself gasp. His hand reflexively squeezes her own at the sight. They're frozen to the spot. Others have become curious far ahead, within the sanctuary. They drift onto the paths, investigating the newcomers. The two soldiers, sensing their mistrust of what their eyes are showing them, motion them forward. "It's all right," one says. "You're welcome here," the other.

And it's like a huge weight is lifted. They're free. Spellbound, they step forward, accepted into the second world. The survivor's colony.

Salvation.

Her eyes water and his chest constricts. It's almost like heaven, when all your relatives are there to welcome you.

"Seeley? Tempe?"

His head snaps to the side at the voice, heart slamming into his throat. Brennan holds back a cry of amazement. Another soldier, decked in fatigues. But it's so much more than a _soldier_.

"Jared," Booth chokes.

And at once, his brother is abandoning his post, pounding over to them with incredulous enthusiasm. Seizing them each in a crushing hug that has Booth wincing a little in pain, but dammit, he doesn't care! Each of them moan and cry in relief as emotions take over the moment. "Jesus, you're alive!" Jared gasps. "You're… oh God, you're okay…"

More voices add to the din. Onlookers tear up at the reunion which has only just begun. "Oh my God! Jack, look!" Shrieks of excitement claim the air.

"They made it!"

"Dr. Brennan!"

"It's Booth!"

"Sweetheart!"

Smiles of blessed euphoria split the faces of all around. She's finally able to release his hand, and together, they're charged at. Embraced. Welcomed home. Everyone's laughing and crying and yelling with delight. Brennan waits for herself to wake up, but that part never comes.

Angela and Hodgins are colliding with them first. Cam and Sweets–and _Zack_?–follow. There are hugs all around, crying as family members are reunited. Dr. Goodman and his family are a step or two back, beaming widely at the exchange. Those around them, strangers and bystanders, smile at the scene. Appreciating the overflowing emotion.

"Get over here, Sweets!" Booth demands of their former therapist, who seems a little excluded from the scene. The bigger man seizes him in a friendly embrace, and the young man is laughing.

When Max is done pampering his daughter–kissing her cheeks, forehead, hair–he turns his attentions to her partner, engulfing him in a bigger bear hug than his brother had. "I knew it, kid! I just _knew_ it! Jesus, what the hell happened to you two? Look like you got into a fight with a bus!" When Booth laughs but finally balks against the constrictive hug, Max steps back and gives him a manly slap in the ribs. "Easy there, Booth. Sorry about that." Booth bites his tongue against the gasp that attempts to escape, and only laughs harder.

Angela is bawling, and so is her current squeeze toy. Hodgins presses his hand comfortingly to her back, tears swimming behind his own large blue eyes. Brennan, after the best friend embrace, throws herself first at the Bug Man and then at her student. Zack seems pleasantly befuddled at first toward the intimate exchange, but smiles happily.

"You're here," she breathes, drawing him closer yet.

"Couldn't leave this guy behind," Hodgins surmises, clapping his friend on the back with a beaming grin.

Cam laughs, tucking Michelle into her side. "We certainly couldn't."

"It seems they needed my vast intelligence on backing their infrastructures and medicinal outposts," he explains. His hair is floppy and hiding his eyes and it's _Zack_. "A misdeed here or there apparently becomes overlooked in the rush to evacuate and resettle. Survival was the primary function. Hodgins and Dr. Sweets got me out. I'm so glad to see you, Dr. Brennan."

She's missed this interaction with him. Missed _him_. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees her brother fast approaching, the children with him. "Marco!" he hollers, grin as big as the ocean. She laughs, screaming, and runs after him, almost tackling him to the ground.

"Auntie Tempe!" the girls squeal, rocketing toward her. Amy is with them. With the small human bodies colliding against her legs, she barely has time to register the third body, rushing forward in desperation. Barely has time to alert her partner, or force her heart back into her chest where it belongs.

He's embracing Cam, who's trying to stem the flowing emotion from her eyes with little success, and his brother is rattling off stories beside them and saying that some of the family is in Colorado. There's a colony there and in Vancouver, he thinks. Suddenly though, Booth doesn't care about any of that.

"_Dad!"_

His heart shatters, and that one fracture that had remained in spite of every achievement and victory finally seals. He turns and he's weightless and he's sobbing and…

His son–his _son_–a year older, a foot and a half taller, is running to him with open arms. It's a rare sight, it's beautiful. His child, crying, _alive_. Parker's alive and he's _fine, fine, fine_.

Booth drops to his knees and braces for the impact. Skinny arms lock around his neck and he's burying his face in blond curls. Weeping, howling. His son snivels against him, hugging him tighter still. Begging him to be real and not like every dream he's had for longer than he dares remember. Brennan joins them a second later, falling to the ground and embracing the boy with his father. Torn with unbridled relief. Everyone gathers around them, sharing, nourished by the corporeal manifestation of love and affection.

Exhaling a cry, he hoists his boy into the air as he rises. He's so _big_, God has he grown! Rebecca and Brent hurry over, the former embracing the father of their son. Booth's peripheral catches another approach and he cranes his neck to see the weathered, balding man standing with his wife, looking on in awe.

"Well done, Agent Booth," Cullen breathes. He gives his best agent an approving nod, barely perceptible. "Well done." Booth returns the gesture, smile fading a little at the gravity. He feels the older man's hand clap onto his shoulder, conveying the deep praise.

Friends, family–_everyone_–form a circle of reunion. One and all talk at once, glowing. Alive with animation. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Booth place an enthusiastic kiss on his partner's cheek atop the tears. Their hands intertwine amongst the pleasant commotion.

Angela beams.

"How long, do you think?" Max posits at her side, eyes crinkled and twinkling.

"Not long," she replies, smile never fading an inch. "She's still blushing when he touches her."

"Irrelevant," Max argues. "I blushed all the time when Chrissie would kiss me."

Angela laughs, and the bell-like sound is lost in the din. Everything is new, refreshed. Everything can begin again, because in the end, you always think about the beginning. Dark deeds are erased. Pasts forgotten in this new world. Time to start over fresh.

_Tabula rasa._ A blank slate.


	33. Our Legacy Lives On

****

**********Author's Note: This is the end. Oh, my friend, this is the end. The end... the end... the end... **

**********************Enjoy! And please R&R at the end! I accept all opinions, good or bad. I don't accept bashing, but constructive criticism is totally fine. Let me know how I can improve. Thanks!**

**************************Again, for pictures, trailers, and such to this behemoth fic, visit my livejournal which you can reach through my author's profile!**

* * *

**EPILOGUE  
**OUR LEGACY LIVES ON

*

_Legend remains victorious in spite of history._

-Sarah Bernhardt-

* * *

_**October 30**__**th**__**, 2010  
Survivor's Colony, Vermont**_

"Dad, _look_!"

Parker dashes across the colorful ground, dry leaves crunching under foot. Blond curls bounce and sway in the breeze. He shrieks with delight when the kite catches a particularly playful gust, fluttering high above them.

"I see it, bud," Booth laughs, standing on the adjacent hill, watching his son below. Jeans, t-shirt, and dark coat bedeck his form, the collar upturned to protect his neck against the tame chill. A blast of air hits his legs, and he watches as Emma and Haley dash squealing down the embankment for their cousin. Begging a turn at the kite. Parker hands off the spindle graciously to the youngest sister first, and they're off.

Booth smiles when he feels her slip her hand into his. He glances over at her briefly, smiling down at her over the tops of his sunglasses. Her hair is gilded by the autumn sunlight, radiant as ever. She returns the endearment, the ring on her finger cool against his skin. Ever remindful.

He'd said, "Marry me," soft as a pin drop. Scared silly, no matter how outwardly confident.

"Of course," had been her answer, sure as ever. Amused that he might, after all this time, doubt her response. A year ago, even two, if situations had been different, he may have been surprised. As would she. But not now. Now, it's just known. This is them, this is who they are. Booth and Bones. Seeley and Temperance, yes, but not really. Always Booth and Bones. They'll grow old together.

Little will change, but not them. He drops a kiss to her temple, and she still blushes. He teases her, she pokes his ribs. They laugh. She hasn't told him yet of the burgeoning bump around her midsection that's still humble an discreet, but soon. She will.

And soon, a legacy of their very own.

They keep smiling, heads tilted up towards the sky, watching the kite soar. The children whoop and laugh below them, almost drowned out when the large humvee roars up beside the two adults on the hill. "Let's go, big brother!" hollers Jared, beckoning him to the metal bed in the back where others clutch at the sturdy frame.

This is routine. Once a week, a group will go out hunting, gathering. Searching for fellow survivors. Sometime's just _looking_. Embracing the world that's become quiet and beautiful again.

Booth shoots a crooked grin at his sibling, turning his attention back to the kids below. "Parker, girls, time to go see Grandpa Max!"

This doesn't deter their fun, and they gallivant their way up the hill, panting and giggling. Two of the neighboring home's border collies dart into the commotion, bouncing happily around the children. Their carefree barking carries over the hill. Parker and the girls have already been promised a puppy when the time arrives by the Neville's. The church bell sounds in the distance at the far end. When the three bubbling masses dash past them and scurry down the road into the more quietly suburban part of the haven, the two partners jog for the truck.

Some passengers seem surprised when Brennan bounds up into the bed beside them, but Jared elbows them back into line. Booth chuckles and nudges away the passing look of annoyance on his partner's face. Snatching up a rifle one of the men hand off to him, he smirks at his brother, "Jared, get Bones a gun." Brennan lights up at his words, delighted when the younger Booth passes an automatic down to her. "Pleased?" her husband asks, settling beside her as the truck roars back to life and they're on the move.

She sticks her tongue out in retribution, but nestles closer against him and away from the wind that whistles through the open back of the vehicle. He digs a second pair of gloves from his pocket and hands them to her when she's finished tugging her scarf tighter around her neck.

They share a smile.

The gates of the colony close behind them. Hopeful of their journey. Awaiting their return.

Somewhere down the line, in spite of it all, _I think I can_ became: _I knew I could_.

* * *

_In 2009, a deadly virus burned through civilization. Pushing human kind to the edge of extinction. Dr. Temperance Brennan dedicated her life to the discovery of a cure, and the restoration of humanity. Seeley Booth accompanied her on this quest for recovery. Protected her, guarded her with his life. __On August 25__th__, 2010, at approximately 6:37 am, she discovered that cure. _

_This is who they are now, this is who they've become. And their love will endure, until they're no more than headstones, memories and stars in the sky. Partners, heroes. Not the last of a kind. _

* * *

_We beat the Infection, salvaged a race. In the harrowing experiences I faced, lived through with him, I found myself. Defined myself. I learned things I'd never considered possible and stood against, triumphed, over every facet that would see me fall. Fail. I survived, with him. With this man who has become more to me than I could ever have foreseen. This man who has fought with me and by my side for so long, I can't recall a life without him. This man, whom I love. I am proud, honored, to call him Partner. We're a team, and this new race is our legacy. _

_We are legends. _

* * *

**Be sure to check out the author's note, coming up. **


	34. Author's Note: READ

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

Okidoke. First off, I cannot express my gratitude enough to all your guy's tremendous and flattering reviews! They really encouraged me on and made me feel like a million bucks! THANK YOU!

And seeing as I'm just too attached to this big momma behemoth fic, I've decided pretty early on that the Epilogue would not mark the end of this AU fantasy. So, what's next for "We are Legend"? Well, that's kind of up to you. I have several ideas already mulling about in my noggin, and since I just don't have time to put a sequel together, here's what's cookin' as we speak:

ONESHOTS: I will continue to do little ficlets for this universe. Some will take place during the set timeline of the fic, some before, and some after. I already have some muses poking at me. One would be during the time when Brennan and Booth are on the run. Another is when Brennan seeks shelter at Booth's home while the warrant is out for her arrest. I'll post them whenever they hit me, but I'd also be more than happy to accept requests! If you have an idea of something you'd like to see, drop me a line! Either leave a review on it, send me a message, or visit my livejournal to do the same. I'll probably post the oneshots under this fic entry, unless you'd prefer me to post them separately?

PHOTOMANIPULATIONS: I'll probably still devote a little artistic love here and there!

VIDEOS: In the future, I might make more trailers and teasers. At the moment, I'm working on a music video of it to the song: "City of Devils" by Yellowcard.

**Anything else? More ideas? Lemme know!**


	35. Author's Note 2: READ READ READ!

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

Okay, so this will mark the first installment of oneshots... just not in this entry. I'll be making a separate entry for all the corresponding oneshots to this universe. Entitled: Pieces of Legend. Obviously, you will be able to find the link in my profile, lol. And also, I want to thank everyone SO SO SO much for your more than flattering reviews and kind words! You've all been so gracious to me, a lowly fanfic writer, haha. And thank you so much for all your oneshot suggestions and requests! If you sent me one, it was written down in my list! Guaranteed! Send me more! I don't care if it's too silly or too dramatic, or whatever! I'd be happy to tackle almost any scenario!

**Smooches to all y'all! **


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